Fame or Fugitive
by lordmasterkris
Summary: Formerly Making It The Hard Way. A story about revenge, oppression, action, violence, and survival in a fictional world as tough as Vice and Liberty combined!Includes characters and references from previous GTAs, with a few clever twists.Please R&R!Ch14UP
1. Introduction

**I don't own Rockstar or GTA or any of the characters mentioned except the ones I made up. **

**Making It The Hard Way (Perhaps Not Working Title)**

It wasn't supposed to be this hard. I've played all the games, seen all the movies, hell, even watched it happen on the news. It starts with petty crime - vandalism, theft - small time stuff, just for the thrill of the adventure or some easy money. For some people that's enough, but for others it becomes an addiction. There's a spark, and it starts a fire. The fire begins to engulf them, and they develop a burning desire to commit serious crimes.

My initial plan was so simple. I pieced it together from a bunch of video games (looking back, maybe I shouldn't have played GTA when I was a kid instead of going to school...). Start small, working as a thug for some corrupt business owner. Just temporarily of course, maybe a couple of months. Then kill him and take over his business. Now all that's left to do is kill a crack dealer, take over his mansion, and develop branches of annoying gang members who constantly call me Mario. Then it's easy sailing...maybe direct some movies, print some counterfeit notes, develop my own little business. Granted there would probably be a few snags along the way (carjacking moving vehicles was the first little annoyance) but I figured I could do it.

I was wrong. I'm in way over my head. On one side I have this corrupt CIA officer with some sort of grudge against...well...everyone, and on the other I have a mafia crime lord trying to get the law enforcement agencies in the palm of his hand. One wrong move either way and I'm dead.


	2. Confidential Documents

Something is here, in this room. I fumble around nervously in the darkness, until I grip my pistol. I begin to make my way to the light switch when I hear the sound of a gun being cocked. I stand still, beads of sweat trickling down my face. The light flickers on, and I find myself staring into the barrels of a shotgun. The man behind the trigger grins at me, licks his lips, and mutters, "Boss says you's is on thin ice. You's better watch yerself. Here, he tolds me to give you's this." He hands me a note in scrawled black pen. He keeps the gun pointed at me as he slowly sidesteps to the door. I breathe a sigh or relief and read the note;

Kid,

we have a problem. Meet me at my casino in the morning. I will inform the bouncers of your appointment to avoid the unpleasantness of what happened last time.

I scrunch the note up and toss it in the trash, then lie back in the hard, uncomfortable hotel bed. I begin to doze off, when a noise outside jolts me awake. I look out the window and see a helicopter.

"Dammit Toreno! Do you know what time it is?" I scream.

"Shut up kid. Get in the chopper - we got work to do."

I climb unsteadily out of the window and take a seat next to Mike Toreno, former CIA agent, who is piloting the chopper. I don't see anyone else on board.

We fly in silence for a few minutes. The view is breathtaking. From here I can see the whole city, millions of tiny lights illuminating the darkness.

Toreno takes us lower, until we are about thirty feet above a building with a skylight, then says finally, "You know how to fly one of these things, right?"

"Um..."

"Great. Keep her at a safe altitude while I drop down. This aint no social call."

"HERE? This is the army base, are you sure you - Dammit!"

Toreno had already lowered himself using the rope ladder, down through the skylight, into the dark room beneath. I take the driver's seat and gawp at the control panel. I select a random button, and press it gingerly. The intercom crackles on and Toreno's voice screams, "What the hell are you doing, kid? You're gonna get us caught!"

I wait in silence for a few minutes. I almost doze off, when I hear a loud crash. I look out the window, and see Toreno climbing up the ladder, with hundreds of armed forces streaming from the barracks behind him and firing wildly into the air.

Toreno clutches his newly acquired briefcase, as if its contents are more important than his life. "Kid! Fly this thing to safety!", he yells from the bottom of the rope ladder

"Um..."

"The stick! Move the stick!"

The chopper lurches forward, the bullets hitting the metal like raindrops. I gaze down at Toreno, clutching the ladder for dear life, as the gunfire narrowly misses him. I fly off shore, and hover over the water while he climbs up.

"Nice flying, kid. I'll take over now." He flies us to the opposite coast, where a truck full of armed soldiers are waiting. "Wow, word gets out fast." he says, in a sarcastic tone. "You ever used one of these before?" He hands me an assault rifle..

"Woah!"

"Shoot them!"

Hands trembling, I lean out the window and begin to fire. One of the cars goes up in flames. I look in amazement at the burning vehicle, grinning ear to ear. I turn to Toreno.

"What do you want, a cookie? Keep firing!"

I fire rapidly, taking out a further three trucks, and probably a score of soldiers. The gun clicks. I'm out of ammo.

"There's only one option left now kid." He hands me a parachute. He grabs another for himself and puts it on his back, then grabs the briefcase. He takes the helicopter up beyond the sight of the remaining troops. "On my count, we jump."

"You're crazy! They'll catch us!"

" They wont even see us. It's too dark. Now, on the count of three...THREE!"

"Hey! Wait!"

I dive out of the moving helicopter after Toreno, quickly looking behind me in time to see it crash into a building. Perfect.

I land about twenty feet in front of Toreno, and stroll over as he hangs up his phone. A black van skids round the corner and stops. Toreno gets in.

"See ya later kid." he says, as the van drives away, leaving me to walk back to the hotel, for about two hours sleep before meeting Mr Leone at the casino tomorrow.


	3. Bad Press

I arrive at the casino right on time. As I approach the entrance, I notice the bouncers glaring at me. As soon as I enter, they advance on me and tackle me to the ground. I scream in pain as one of them twists my arm, and Mr Leone walks out of his office. With a simple hand gesture, he calls the bouncers back to their positions and I struggle to my feet.. I follow him into his office, clutching my left arm. A newspaper lies open on the table. One of the articles has been circled in red pen;

"**TORENO AND MYSTERY ACCOMPLICE KILLED IN AIRCRAFT CRASH"**

**After stealing a confidential item from the Easter Basin Army Facility, Mike Toreno, former agent of the CIA died when his helicopter crashed into a building last night. Although no body was found..."**

"Yeah, that'll be the day." I mutter.

"Yeah, I know"Salvatore concedes, "Those same articles were all over the papers after that punk from Liberty "assassinated" me. 'Course he never did really finish the job. My philosophy for life - always send out a dummy car first."

"Good advice, sir."

"You hear about this kid here?" He points to an article over the page. "Been here two months and he's already tearing the place up."

Month and a half, I think to myself, and snigger quietly.

"You could learn somethin from him, kid. Watch yerself. This kid might even be anglin for your job."

"What do you want, Mr. Leone?"

"What? Oh, yeah. There's this news journalist, right? Always stickin his nose where it aint wanted. Let's just say he's got some...incriminating evidence regarding the casino and myself. Now he's threatening to take it to court if I don't give him a share in the casino profits."

"So what do you want me to do?" I ask, as if I didn't already know the answer.

"I want you to waste him. But don't get caught, or we'll both have our necks in the noose. I've hidden a firearm at the address here," He hands me a piece of paper. "He passes by here at three every day. Don't screw this up, or it'll be all over the tabloids. And that's the last thing we need."

I leave the casino, and call a cab. This way I can take in some sights and get a ground view of the city. People are going about their business as normal. This is a city that runs on crime, and nobody thinks anything of it. Shop owners pay protection money to the mafia or they get a pair of cement shoes, people keep their mouths shut about everything that goes on, or they sleep with the fishes. Obviously this reporter is new in town.

The cabbie pulls over in front of the building, and I pay him his fare. I step out and gaze at the rooftop. It must be ten stories high. I take the elevator to the roof, where a sniper rifle is waiting with a note attached, in the same familiar scrawled writing;

he waits for a bus at three every day. his bus will be taking an unscheduled detour if all goes to plan. he won't wait around forever though kid so make it quick. and remember, you only get one shot at this, so don't blow it, and don't let him get away.

I check my watch. Two fifty-five. I take a deep breath, and grasp the gun in both hands. I look through the aimer and take a couple of imaginary practice shots. I manoeuvre the gun to the bus stop, in time to see the target arrive. I clench my hands tightly around the gun, take aim, close my eyes, and slowly squeeze the trigger. People scream, and birds flutter. I open my eyes and see the victim remain standing. He appears to be looking at me.

"DAMMIT!"

I throw the gun to the ground and run to the stairs, half sprinting, half falling down them. I run to the front of the building and straight into his view. The woman next to him hands him a set of keys and he runs round the corner. I stagger after him with all my remaining strength and see him get into a sedan, and start the engine. I produce my pistol and point it at a biker. While keeping the gun inches from his head, I hop on the back.

"Chase him!"

Obediently the biker accelerates forward after the speeding car. I take a couple of shots and blow one of his tires, causing him to swerve, but remain in control.

"Go faster! Pull up beside him!"

I steady myself on the back of the bike, wind blowing in my face, and jump to the roof of the journalist's car, hanging on as tight as I can. He swerves from side to side, trying to throw me off, cutting into side alleys and switching lanes constantly. I look forward and see, to my horror, the diverted bus mentioned in the mission briefing careering down the one way street towards us.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

I pull myself to a crouched position, and jump, seconds before impact, into a dumpster. A minute later, after recovering, I pick myself up and walk over to the wreckage.

Still breathing.

I load my gun and I close my eyes.

And fire.

There is a groaning sound behind me. I turn around and see the biker crawl out of an alleyway nearby. I aim the gun and him.

"Keep your mouth shut. If you know what's good for you." I just couldn't bring myself to shoot him.

He nods, and drives off on his severely battered bike.

I head to a payphone and call Salvatore. "It's done."

"Great. Did anyone see you?"

"No one." I lie.

"Okay. I'll send someone round to the hotel with your payment."

"Can you make sure they don't come in the middle of the night like last ti- hello? Damn."


	4. Outrun

I enter through the hotel doors, forcing a smile at the receptionist on my way to the elevator. The few seconds spent staring into the eyes of the other lodgers always seems like an eternity. I feel as thought they can see right through me. Like they _know_ me. When it reaches my floor, I quickly shuffle out, without glancing back, and walk along the corridor to my room. The wooden floors echo my every step. More than once I have checked if I am being followed. My door is easily distinguishable due to my home made "Do Not Disturb" sign. Of course...my choice of words were a lot less flattering. I reach into my pocket and produce my key card and insert it into the lock. I open the door sharply, and in the same movement, a figure spins from behind it and points a gun at my head. It takes a few steps backward, and I can see it clearly.

"You really are an idiot." smirks Toreno. He shoves a crumpled up piece of paper in my face. The note from Salvatore's goon.

"Wh...where did you get that?"

"Oh, come on kid. You left it in the trash can. How was I not to find it?"

I resist the urge to mention the sign on the door. "You raided my trash. Toreno?" I smile, but hopefully not in a mocking sort of way.

"I search every inch of this room. You can't be too careful these days."

Even through the sternness of his voice, and the stiffness of his actions, it is obvious he is enjoying himself. He is in control, he has power. To him, he has everything.

"So you work for the mafia?" he asks, in a clearly rhetorical question. "I'm sure you know my views on organised crime?"

I stare blankly.

"Its only good when I get a cut, you hear me? You betrayed me kid. I thought I could trust you. But I'm a fair man. You get ten seconds to tell me what you've been doing, before I blow your head off."

"Well...um-"

"Nine."

"It's just that-"

"Eight. Seven."

"I -"

"Six. Five."

I feel myself shaking. What the hell am I supposed to say?

"Four. Three. Two."

He loads the gun and smirks.

"One."

A spotlight beam shines through the window, obscuring his vision. I duck and roll out of his path as the gun goes off.

Rapid fire bullets stream through the window, and Toreno hits the deck. It's a police chopper!

"We've got you now Toreno! We have you surrounded," came a muffled voice from the intercom. "You've faked your death for the last time. Now its the real thing!"

Toreno grabs me by the arm and barges through the door, where several SWAT team officers are stationed. Keeping his vision locked directly forward, he loads his gun.

"You're not gonna fight your way out are you? Man you're crazy!"

He hands me a pair of goggles. "Put them on. Trust me."

"Night vision goggles? Cool!"

He points the gun upwards, and shoots the light. I put the goggles on and follow him through the rows of disoriented law enforcers, to the exit where a black van is waiting.

"Why did you make me follow you? I thought you wanted me dead."

We step into the van.

"Hey, you may come in handy some day. You do good work."

He looks under the driver's seat and produces an SMG. He rolls down a window and commences fire.

"What do you want me to do?" I enquire.

"Why don't you go get me a coffee." He says in the annoyingly sarcastic tone I have grown accustomed to. "What do you think I want you to do? Grab a gun from under the seat and shoot some cops! And take those damn goggles off!"

The driver hands me an SMG and, standing on a seat, I lean out of the sunroof. What I see is chaotic. Choppers swerve between buildings, SWAT vans screech along the roads and pavements. The street is engulfed in flames, and the debris from destroyed vehicles falls like rain.

I'll handle these guys, kid. You take em out if they get to close." commands Toreno from below.

Though few there are, I manage to immobilise any vehicles that successfully avoid the juggernaut that is an armed Toreno. I had a clear shot anyway. Straight through the windows before they had a chance to stop me.

Lost in my own world of smug self satisfaction, I hear a voice.

"What?" I yell.

"I SAID GET IN! HURRY UP OR YOU'RE GONNA DIE!"

I look to my right to see, a squad car, almost completely covered in flames speeding along beside us. I dive down onto the seat and put my hands over my head. A few seconds later, the whole van rocks, knocking me against the wall. I stagger to my seat, to see Toreno attending to the driver. The windshield has smashed and there is a lot of blood.

Toreno walks over to me. "Can you drive?" he asks in the sort of tone that suggests that I will be doing it no matter what I say. "His hands are pretty messed up and I think he's a little concussed. He'll be fine though." Toreno assures me, as if reading my mind.

"Sure. I'll drive."

I take the wheel, SWAT trucks in hot pursuit. I take a sharp turn onto the freeway and floor it to top speed.

"I think it's time we brought out the heavy artillery." I hear Toreno say to the former driver. Both of them appear to be laughing hysterically. It is very unnerving.

I look back to see Toreno posing with a rocket launcher in his grip. He smashes the back window with it and leans out. First shot causes the truck to swerve, second shot narrowly misses. Third shot. Total annihilation. The explosion from the first truck causes a chain reaction with three more vans combusting. This really is crazy, I think to myself. This guy nearly killed me earlier today, and now he's in the car brandishing a rocket launcher! I have to get out of here. I have to get my life back on track. I have to-

"KID! WHAT THE HELL? PAY ATTENTION!"

I gaze forward to see a shape forming in the distance. I focus on it, trying to determine whether it should be considered a threat. Seconds later, when I am in viewing distance, the shape becomes more apparent. A good old fashioned army blockade, with new-fangled military intelligence. Tanks. I use what I call quick thinking, (what Toreno would have called acting like a stupid jackass if he hadn't been busy firing at the trucks behind us).

"HOLD ON TIGHT!" I yell, and swerve over onto a newly ploughed field. I look back to see the army trucks follow us over the field, then look forward to see why this part of the road was not blockaded.

The car was already plummeting over the cliff.

Realising there is nothing I can do, I leap into the back of the van and watch the ground close in. Toreno and the wounded driver leap from the van via the back doors seconds before we crash. I don't see where they go.


	5. Stowaway

I wake in a comfy bed, in overalls. I can't move. The place smells of anaesthetic. The ceilings are painted green, the walls, green, the floor, green. Using all the strength I can muster, I pull myself to a sitting position, and squint at the label on my clothes. My vision is blurred.

Name: unknown

Admitted: 11 Aug

Someplace Maximum

Security Hospital for

The Convicted.

Clever. Take out the name and no one will know where they are. Well, nothing can hold me back. I run to the window, but fall to my knees in pain. Maybe I'll wait till tomorrow. I crawl back to bed and enjoy the best sleep I've had for months.

I am awakened the next morning with a PA message.

A gruff male voice mumbles, "Could, um..." I hear voices whisper. "What the hell is his name?"

"How the hell should I know!"

The voice returns to full volume. "Could the guy what was taken in yesterday come to da reception desk. There's a...um...phone call?" The voice whispers "Is that okay? A phone call?"

"Yeah its fine. Hurry up."

"A...phone call." The voice continues, "what is very important. So come right away."

I control the urge to laugh. Toreno's up to his tricks again. I half walk, half limp down the corridors and towards the entrance, where Toreno is standing with a gun pointed at the receptionist and the man I recognise as the driver from the night before sitting by the intercom. He looks at me with a stare that suggests that if I don't hurry and get out his sight he will kill me. "I'm still pissed off about that mafia thing, kid. I tell ya, if I catch you working for Salvatore again I'm gonna have your head. Now beat it."

Still in my hospital issued green smock, I dash out the door and steal a moped from a pizza delivery guy. I head back to the hotel to change into some real clothes, then over to Salvatore's to try and tell him that I won't be doing business with him any longer. Hopefully he won't kill me to make sure.

Standing outside the casino doors, I take a deep breath, stand up as straight as possible with my chest pushed out, and quickly walk in, ignoring the stares from the bouncers. I sit in the seat opposite Salvatore. He slams the paper down on the desk in front of me.

"NOBODY SAW YOU? NOBODY SAW YOU? LOOK AT THIS ARTICLE AND TELL ME THAT NO ONE SAW YOU!"

I pick up the paper and begin to read the part circled in red.

"**SALVATORE STRIKES AGAIN"**

**Vince Taylor, a former journalist for this newspaper and known for his hard hitting articles about the state of organised crime in this city was murdered yesterday by a man who is thought to be working for leading mafia boss Salvatore Leone. The only witness, who preferred to remain unnamed claims that the man forced him at gunpoint to chase down Vince on his motorcycle and attempted to...**

"I would lecture you kid, but it looks like you got a job to do. He's boarding a plane out of the country. I suggest you stop him, before I really lose my temper."

"Thank you sir" I manage, and walk slowly toward the door. I guess this is a bad time to explain my situation.

He shouts after me, "This aint over kid. You lied to me. I'd sleep with one eye open if I was you."

I nod, then head for the exit. I get in my "new" car, a beaten up old Glendale I bought at a used car lot with my payment for the assassination and begin the long drive to the airport. At least it'll give me time to formulate a plan, as I drive through the badlands, where the scenery seems to repeat itself like a badly drawn cartoon.

I arrive at the airport to see the luggage being loaded onto a plane. I produce my pistol, with a silencer I crudely welded on the end, and shoot the guards with pinpoint accuracy. I climb aboard the luggage floor and hide, desperately trying to work out phase two of my plan. The plane shakes, and I tumble to the ground. The plane begins to move. I curse under my breath. It looks like I'm leaving too. I sit for a few moments, and wonder if this is really such a bad thing. Surely if I had stayed here any longer Salvatore would have had me killed, and Toreno can't bug me with his stupid war games if I'm no where to be found. This is perfect. I lie back, and relax.


	6. New Business Arrangements

Upon landing, I sneak off the plane and walk away. I notice the man who ratted me to the papers. I guess he was really doing me a favour, no sense in following ludicrous orders from Salvatore any more. The man looks at me, and his face turns pale as a ghost. He produces a 9mm and fires a few shots. I dive behind a pile of suitcases, out of the man's firing range. Looks like I'll have to kill him after all, I think with a smirk. I hear shots being fired, some of which I feel penetrating the cases. I load my own gun and hop over my cover. I fire at the man as he runs off, catching him in the leg. He buckles for a second, allowing me to get within easy firing distance. He limps to an empty baggage handler, starts the ignition and screeches towards me. I ready myself, and when the timing is right, leap over the man and into the tray on the back of his vehicle. I put the gun to his head, and cock it.

"You had to open your mouth, didn't you. Sorry, but this is the price you pay for messing with the mafia."

I pull the trigger.

I realise that I could be in the same position. One of Toreno's clowns could have been after me in the same way. But I'm free now. I have a second chance. Revenge will be in order, but I ought to establish reinforcements. But first, I have to find out where the hell I am.

I steal a nice car and drive around my new "home". The city is overrun with skyscrapers. No one is obeying traffic laws, but the police don't seem to care. I locate the hospitals, police stations, weaponry retailers, "Pay N' Sprays" and one place, which catches my eye. I enter.

I am greeted with a shotgun pointed at me. I stare along the barrels, into the eyes of an old friend of mine, Gator, who's name's origins were long forgotten. As always, he wears his dark sunglasses, so it is hard to tell his expression. His hair is cut short, and has clearly been died black. He is wearing oil stained overalls. He looks like a mechanic.

After a lengthy discussion in which I explained our past friendship, we start to talk about our current situations. Apparently after we went our separate ways, he enlisted in the army, but deserted after training and changed his identity. He used his knowledge of explosives and firearms to open the shop, where he will gladly acquire and build anything today's homicidal maniac needs. He says he wanted to make it his slogan, but decided to keep the business discreet, which explains the sign outside, which reads;

"Gator's PET Shop"

Meeting The needs of today's Armed Lunatic

The words "Bomb, and gun" were faintly legible.

"I'm running a bit low on staff at the moment though. How would you like to work with me?"

As soon as he used the word "with" instead of "for", I knew I was on to something. "Sure buddy, but first you gotta do something for me." I shake his hand, and begin my first real business relationship.


	7. Goodnight, Mr Leone

Gator lets me crash at his place for a while. We stayed up pretty late last night catching up. I explained my plan to him, told him what I needed. He was happy to oblige.

"Are you sure this is gonna work, dude?"

"Nope." I admit

He laughs. "It's a bit dramatic though, isn't it?"

"Hey, I always put on a show."

We take Gator's private plane, a contraption that would put the Wright brothers to shame. We load it with all the stuff we need and fly back to the place that sufficed as my home while I was caught between two opposing forces in a war - Salvatore and Toreno. I don't have much time to admire the scenery on this trip, due to the fear that the plane might spontaneously combust at any moment, and Gator swerving through trees at breakneck speed, skimming the water so close I get caught in the spray and even pulling the odd barrel roll, leaving me to hang on for dear life.

"Seatbelts are for losers anyway man!" he yells from the front seat.

"No, seatbelts are for people that want to stay alive!" I yell back. "Do you know where you're going!" I joke

"Not at all." he answers with all seriousness.

"Great. Just keep circling the island till we find a spot."

"Gotcha."

After about half an hour of searching and amateur stunts, we stumble (even the plane manages to stumble) across an old, abandoned airstrip.

"Dude, I gotta be honest with you", he yells as we approach the ground, "I never learned how to land one of these things. . . as a matter of fact, this is the first time I've actually flown one."

I try to determine if he is joking. A streak of panic crosses my face when I realise he is totally serious.

The plane nose dives for the ground. I grab the stick and yank it towards me, levelling out slightly. We hit the ground hard, and trundle along the runway. Slowly we step out of the plane, which is now on fire, and stroll away with unbeatable nonchalance. A faint explosion is heard in the distance.

After what seemed like hours of walking around aimlessly, we arrive at the hotel. I head to the elevator as normal, but with a new found confidence in my company. We reach my door and I unlock it, then open it carefully, fingering the pistol in my coat pocket.

It's clear.

"So, anyway, this is my part of the plan, I can take it on my own, so I guess you can stay here till I get back."

"No way, man. I'll come with. For back up if you need it. I'll be, like, your getaway driver." offers Gator.

"Hey, dude, I've seen your driving skills. I'll be the getaway driver."

I would like to think this is the last time I enter this casino. I exit the car Gator "found", leaving him in the passenger seat. I notice the glances from the bouncers, but ignore them and stroll to Mr Leone's office.

"Ah, good to see you again." he says. "Is it done?"

I don't answer. I wait for him to call the bouncers off so they leave the room, like he always does.

"Yes, yes, my good men. You may leave. As per usual."

A quick check to make sure he is unarmed. How cocky and pompous, I think. So confident in his safety that he doesn't even carry a piece.

I take out my pistol, and point it at him, watching him squirm and watching the beads of sweat form on his brow.

"Goodnight, Mr Leone." Dammit, I should have said something better. . . ah to hell with it. I fire, and leave him, choking on his blood as I walk to the door.

This is the hard part. Getting back out. I ease the office door open, and creep out, breaking the world speed record for the nonchalant walk. If all goes to plan, I should have two minutes before the whole building blows skyward. _If_ all goes to plan. . .

The bouncers, probably curious as to why the boss has not recalled them, burst into his office. I curse loudly and start to run. Sprinting along the seemingly endless casino floors, I glance behind me to see the goons streaming out of Salvatore's room and thundering towards me. I spy the concierges ahead, noticing that they spotted me a while ago and were already advancing. I dive behind a blackjack table, and try to negotiate the terrain, like a soldier in the heat of battle. And that's when I notice the bomb. Gator must have made a miscalculation. It's gonna blow in ten seconds!

Guns blazing around me, I duck and roll around the tables and games machines, trying frantically to get to the exit. I stand up into sight and lure the bouncers close, before leaping over the table and sprinting for the door. I dive through the door frame and roll down the steps, hands over my head, curled into a defensive ball like a hedgehog.

The noise is deafening. The roar of the flames, the explosions, the screams. Slowly, I pick myself up, and pace unsteadily towards the car, where Gator is sitting, watching in awe at the spectacular display. He says something, but I can't here him because of the ringing in my ears.

"Drive to the airport." I manage. "It's the only way back since we trashed the plane."

"You're paying for that, by the way."

"What?" I reply, pointing to my ears, pretending I didn't hear him.

Gator begins the drive to the airport, which takes twice as long as it did for me since he has no clue where he is going and won't listen to my directions.

Upon arrival, we conceal our weapons, and head to the ticket booth.

"That'll be 200 each." smiles the woman serving.

I reach into my pocket to fetch my wallet, but hear Gator's voice.

"Sure, it's right. . . HERE!" He pulls out his gun and aims it at the woman. Politely, she hands over two first class tickets.

"E. . . Enjoy your flight." Her smile has lost all its warmth.

"And you were gonna settle with cheap seats." laughs Gator as we begin the journey.


	8. This Means War

"Okay, here's the deal," begins my new employer, "Business aint as booming as it used to be. Maybe it's just me but the country seems to be a whole lot less homicidal than when I was a kid." He is about to start one of his set-in-his-ways reminiscent tales, but I interrupt.

"I hear Ammunation is branching off into explosives, think they'll be a threat?"

Just then a molotov breaks through the window, setting the place alight. Gator reaches for a fire-extinguisher while I look outside, to see a van with "Ammunation, leading the fight against communism" tattooed on the side.

After putting out the flames, Gator gathers up the destroyed stock. I notice the glint in his eye.

"Of course, this means war." he grins.

I notice that I am grinning also. "What do you have in mind?"

Without looking at me, he looks behind the counter and produces a stick of dynamite. "One of these babies, and the place'll go up like a fireworks factory."

"You sure?"

"Trust me, you don't work with explosive chemicals all your life without learning a thing or two."

"I'll go, I guess."

"But I'll come along." he insists.

"Shouldn't you stay and guard the shop? In case something happens again?"

He holds a brief look of disappointment. "I guess." he sighs.

I leave the shop and get into a Cheetah and follow Gator's extremely vague directions to the Ammunation factory. I conceal my weapons and search the exterior of the building for a less obvious entrance. I settle for the basement doors, a well camouflaged staircase in the ground at the back of the building. This room looks like it stretches across the entire building, with bombs, and rocket launchers and. . . fireworks. I plant the dynamite, which Gator provided a handheld detonator for and walk toward the exit. I hear footsteps, and whispering voices.

"There's someone down there alright. Think we should call the boss?"

"Yeah, it'd be best I guess."

I crawl towards the stairs and look up. The guys look like security guards. One of them is on his cell phone.

"Yeah, it could be trouble. I reckon you should get down here right away, Phil."

He hangs up the phone and switches on a flash light.

"Search the place." he says. I see the shadows of men walking slowly down the stairs. I look around for a door and sprint towards it, detonator in hand. I climb the stairs behind the door to the ground level and walk around looking for a way out. People appear to be panicking. They don't even notice me. I step outside as a green Patriot truck screeches in front of me. Out steps a man, dressed in green overalls, with blonde, crew cut hair. He has one arm. He aims an AK-47 at me and I hold up the detonator.

"You wouldn't." I jest. "I got this place wired to blow. Take another step and I press the button. Wanna take yer chances?"

He pauses for a moment. "Do you have _any_ idea who I am? "

I remain unshaken.

"Phil Cassidy ring any bells, punk?"

I feel a chill down my spine "Th. . . _the_ Phil Cassidy?"

"That's right."

"Well. . . do you have any idea who _I_ am? How about the guy who single-handedly destroyed Salvatore Leone and his casino?"

"That was _you_? Hmm. . . maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement. Who you workin' for?"

"A guy named Gator. We're sort of business partners."

"You mean the guy who owns the pet shop? What does he have against my firm?"

"Well. . .apart from rival competition, your company threw a molotov cocktail through our doors earlier today."

He appears to overlook this. "I see a company merge is in order. You and your friend wanna move into this building with me? I can supply ya with stuff you could only dream of, and make you all rich. RICH!" he shouts.

There is a rustling in the bushes, and a voice whispers, "Say yes. Please say yes!"

"I thought you were watching the store." I half whisper, half shout.

"I got bored!"

"Um. . ."I say, turning back to Phil, "He says yeah."

"Fantastic! You guys go pack up your stuff and I'll send someone round to collect it. And if ya wouldn't mind disarming the bomb. . ."

"Well, my work is done, I guess." I say dejectedly. I was sort of hoping my story wouldn't end so soon.

"You can come run Ammunation with us," says Gator.

"Well, maybe. But I think I'll take a few days off, if that's cool?"

"Whatever. Just show up when ya feel like it."

After helping Gator clean up, I head to my house across the city for some sleep.

I have a message on my answering machine. The tape crackles a bit and the voice yells, "Hey you ugly sad sack of dog vomit! You think you can just run away? Huh? You think I'd never find you? I can do anything. I have connections all over the world. You can't escape me. So you worked for the mafia, that's strike one. Then you fled the country, that's strike two. And now I hear you teamed up with that 'Nam veteran scumbag Cassidy! You know what the penalty is for strike three? DEATH! Showdown. Tomorrow, at the Ammunation factory. I suggest you bring back up, as I certainly will. End Transmission."

Despite the graveness of the situation, I can't help but laugh at how he ended the message with "end transmission".

Sighing heavily, I get back in my car and drive to Ammunation.

I call an informal meeting for Gator and Phil to ask for their help.

"So he'll be here tomorrow and I really need you guys for back-up." I plead.

"Why don't we just plant a bomb and detonate it when he arrives?" suggests Gator.

"THIS PLACE IS MY LIFE ASSHOLE! YOU AINT GONNA BLOW IT UP, GOT IT!" screams Phil.

Gator simply nods, white with fear.

Phil sits back down. "How are you guys at shooting?"

"I'm okay, but I need a little practice" Gator says.

"I'm pretty inexperienced." I admit.

"Okay, we're headin' to the shootin' range to turn you guys into cold blooded killers."

We spend the day in the range, capping cardboard cut-outs of famous felons of history, such as Lance Vance, El Burro, and 8-ball, a man idolised by Gator, while enduring Phil's "criticism".

"YOU IDIOTS! DON'T JUST LET THE WOMEN AND CHILDREN PASS BY!"

"YOU IDIOTS! IF THIS HAD BEEN REAL YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN DEAD!"

"YOU IDIOTS! I DON'T SEE ANY HEADSHOTS!"

Afterwards we return to the business and discuss tactics. It's gonna be a long day tomorrow.


	9. Showdown

I sit at the conference table, on the only day I have ever been early for work. Gator sits across from me, visibly shaking, his head in his hands. The double doors crash open, jolting us to our feet in a mix of fear and anger. It was just Phil.

"Okay, guys. I scored us some quality merchandise." He hauls a box up onto the table. "Take your pick."

He breaks the lid off the crate and I peer inside. "This is the biggest load of weapons I've ever seen!" shouts Gator.

"Yeah, look at this stuff! 9mms, Ak-47s, Tec 9s, where did you get all this stuff?"

Phil looks shifty, "None of your business! Oh, Gator, I have something special for you." He picks a sniper rifle from the bottom of the box. "You wait up on the roof, and cap anyone you can before they get in the building."

Gator pockets a 9mm and takes the sniper rifle, before making his way up to the roof.

"Okay, you and I, kid - all out attack. Take up a safe position somewhere, and shoot the hell outta anyone that walks through those doors. Now! They could be here any minute."

A shot is fired, near Phil's foot, causing him to jump.

"Or maybe," a voice says, "They're already here."

"Toreno! Where are you? I'll kill you!"

"Oh, I will be making an appearance," says the voice, calmly. "Once you are all DEAD!"

I follow the sound of laughter, under the conference table, where a bug has been planted. Another shot is fired, and a man, clad in a black suit, with a black tie and black sunglasses tumbles from a balcony, and lands on the table, smashing it into pieces.

"DAMN YOU TORENO!" screams Phil. "THAT TABLE WAS EXPENSIVE YOU BASTARD!" He grabs an Ak-47 and dives behind some empty boxes, red with rage.

I pocket a couple of Tec 9s and grab another Ak-47. I find a safe looking area behind some metal containers, and peer around the side anxiously. There is the sound of a car driving outside, and a black Admiral car skids to a halt in front of the building. Four men, dressed in the same outfit as the sniper get out from the car, and walk towards the door slowly. Another shot is fired, and one of the men falls to his knees. Without even glancing round, the others continue to the entrance.

"THIS IS FOR MY TABLE!" cries Phil, as he leaps on top of the boxes. "I'LL KILL YOU ALL!" He unleashes a barrage of bullets, making short work of the first wave. He returns to his hiding place, breathing heavily. That must have been some table, I think to myself.

There is a crackling noise, and then a voice. "Guys, do you read me?"

I pick up the walkie talkie. "Yeah."

"You all right? I heard shouting."

"It's fine. Phil was just avenging the loss of his table."

There was some laughter. "Uh-oh. Here comes another wave, guys. This time there's three cars."

Phil takes his receiver. "Try to aim for the drivers, okay? Take em out before they get too close."

"Gotcha." There is some more crackling, and Gator's voice fades away.

I hear shots being fired, and glass smashing. One car rolls up. The driver door eases open, and a body fall out, lifeless and limp. I hear another shot, and the car ahead goes up in flames. The voice crackles back.

"Hey guys, I missed the passenger, but I hit the gas tank by mistake."

The men exit the vehicle flailing wildly as the fire burns at their skin. Eventually, they are brought to the ground with the lack of oxygen, and suffocate. The other two carloads drive up the path. One man leans out the sunroof, and shoots upwards, toward the roof. I hear some cursing, and see Gator's rifle fall in front of the man.

I pick up the walkie talkie. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he winces, "he just got my arm."

"You alright to fire a gun?"

"I don't know, man, but I can still keep a look out."

"Good."

About a dozen mafia men amble through the entrance. Phil chances his luck and fires over the top of the boxes. The men spot him instantly , and produce their own assault rifles. I look around, for something to do.

"Phil. . .don't hate me for this." I aim at the barrels of explosives near the door, and empty a clip into them. They explode, leaving a trail of flames across the doorway. "That ought to hold them back, at least."

"My. . .My Factory!"

"You can kill me later, Phil, unless these guys do it first! Follow me."

Leaving the goons on the other side of the wall of fire, I lead Phil to the stairs, and we climb. Nearing the top, I contact Gator. "We're coming up. It's too dangerous down there."

"Um. . .I wouldn't come up if I were you."

I open the roof hatch and look out. I see Gator backed into a corner, and a helicopter hovering to the side of the roof.

"Toreno!"

"Nice of you to make it." says Phil. "I thought you would be too old for all this "childishness". Remember when we were in 'Nam, and you told me about you wanting to go to medical school, and not be a soldier anymore? Remember I stole that plane for us, so we could get out of there, and you pushed me out before take-off?" He turns to me. "That's how I lost my arm, kiddo. 'coz of this jerk."

"What a load of bull," smirks Toreno. "You lost your arm in '86, playing with explosives."

"Whatever. The point is, I got you a second chance. And you blew it. And now, you wanna kill me? Us?"

Toreno pauses, taking this all in. Then finally, hey says, "Yep." He tosses a molotov cocktail onto the roof and slowly ascends in the chopper. I feel the hate, the anger, the aggression build up inside me. I run. I run through the flames. And I jump off the roof, catching the landing gear of the helicopter, as it takes off. I look back to see the amazed looks on my comrades' faces. Silently, I pull myself up. Toreno, and his driver are sitting in the cockpit. I creep up to Toreno, put my arm around his neck and my gun to his head. I drag him backward, to the open helicopter door. The driver reaches for his gun, but Toreno waves frantically at him to stop. We reach the edge, I club Toreno with my gun, and toss him out. His unconscious figure falls into the ocean. I pace over to the driver. And shoot him point blank, spraying blood all over the windshield. I carefully move the body, trying to touch it as little as possible. I sit in the seat, and using everything Toreno taught me about flying, take the chopper back to the Ammunation roof, where Gator and Phil are waiting.

"Where's Toreno?" questions Phil.

"Sleeping with the fishes. Want a helicopter? It's yours if you clean it."

"Wait! You killed Toreno?"

"Yeah, well. . .you know." I say, showing no modesty whatsoever.

We all go inside, to rest.

I turn on the radio for the news

" "And now the stories gripping the country.

Disgraced CIA agent Mike Toreno is dead. This time we have a body to prove it. Richard Burns is on the scene."

"Thanks Leanne. Mike Toreno is dead. And this time, we have a body to prove it. Back to you, Leanne in the studio."

"Thanks Richard for that completely irrelevant broadcast. And now a word from Donald Love, who will be running for mayor in the upcoming elections."

"I know what it means to be in charge. I know what is best for this town. I know what is best for _everyone._"

"But what about the people who say you can't be trusted? I know you abandoned Liberty City years ago, leaving Love Media and all of it's stockholders to rot."

"Yes, I left Liberty City. But what sane person wouldn't? I had my reasons for leaving, and it was hard on me too. But now, I am making my comeback, right here, right now. YOU CAN'T STOP ME."

"Powerful words. Powerful words, from a strange man. And now over to Maurice, in his garden. . ."

Life is sweet.

A/N: This will be my last update for a little while if anyone cares (Nothing says "I care" like reviews!), as I'm going to work on a new short story idea. It shouldn't be too long before I update, so don't forget about me!


	10. The Love Of The Chase

I sit at the brand new office table, enjoying all the praise from Gator and especially Phil. I still can't really believe that I managed to kill Toreno.

There is a loud, impatient knocking at the door. We exchange glances for some time, debating who will answer. I blink.

I walk over to the door, and open it slightly. Staring back at me is an old, tall man, with a moustache and a cowboy hat, a white shirt and a blue jacket.

"Howdy partner." He tips his hat. I close the door over.

"Who is it?" asks Gator.

"Some retired old cowboy."

"Let him in." Phil says, without looking up.

I undo the locks, and the man strolls in. "Actually," he starts, "the name's Avery Carrington. Owner of Avery Construction in Vice City in the eighties?"

"Oh, hey, I know you," says Phil. "You used to hang around in the bar at that mansion in Starfish Island."

"Uh. . .yeah. Whatever."

We all sit at one end of the table, opposite Avery, each trying to stare him out.

"So, what do you want?" says Phil, breaking the silence.

"Well I know you're a bunch of guys who can get things done. And I want to employ your services."

"What for?"

He sighs. "Back in the eighties, I was top dog for real estate. Everyone respected me, everyone knew my name. They feared me. You couldn't leave your building unattended for a second without me stepping in and seizing the land." He sighs again.

"So?"

"Then, I took that pompous four-eyed prick Donald Love under my wing, taught him a few things, you know? Yeah, well, the double crossin' bastard stabbed me in the back. Told the police of my "acquisition" techniques, and I had to leave. He took over all my assets in Vice, then Liberty. I got back at him though. Spooked him. You ever wonder why he mysteriously vanished?"

We all listen intently.

"I had a hit put out on him. I paid some crazy homeless guy to fly a plane through his building, but someone tipped him off too soon, and he left. No one is really sure where he went, but no one has even mentioned his name for the past five years. During that time I've tried to crawl my way back to the top, but it's hard, you know? I'm too old. But now, he's back, and trying to get his media business back on it's feet. That's where you come in. I don't know how you're gonna do it, nor do I care. Just make sure you kill him, not scare him. I don't want him returning in another five years."

"What's in it for us?" I ask.

"If you do this for me, partner, I'll help you branch off your business, help you acquire land, make you all rich."

We exchange excited glances. Phil leans across the table and shakes his hand on behalf of the company. He then leaves.

"Peace of cake." grins Phil, "we can get him tomorrow at the electoral debate in the town hall."

"It won't be that easy. If he gets away, he's gonna leave the country again. We can't fail."

"You're right." says Gator. "I say we should all use our best skills, and go for him one at a time."

We spend a while planning it out.

We each have important parts to play, based on what we do best. Phil would cause a ruckus inside, and attempt to kill Donald Love there and then. If he failed, I would be waiting at the front door to kill him as he left. And if I failed, he would be blown up by the bomb Gator will have strapped to his car. We run over the plan several times, then we get in a car and drive to the meeting, which had already started.

We pull up in the car, a short distance away, and notice the two limos pulled out in front, both black. Both have bodyguards protecting them. I take them out with a silenced pistol.

"Dammit!" whispers Gator. "We didn't account on two limos! I only have one bomb!"

"Then you better hope me and Phil get the job done."

"Just pick a limo, and attach the bomb." commands Phil.

Gator messes with the engine of one limo, then returns to the car to wait with the detonator.

"Okay, kid." Phil says. "Get in position, and don't, even for a second, let your guard down. Remember, we _can't _ fail."

I nod, and wait in the shrubs to the right of the entrance.

Phil strolls in calmly, nodding and smiling at the audience. He pauses. "THIS IS A FUCKING RAID! DON'T MOVE A FUCKING MUSCLE, DONALD, OR I'LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!" He aims a gun at Donald Love, who immediately ducks and makes for the curtain behind him. "SHIT, KID! HE'S GOIN' FOR THE BACK EXIT! TAKE HIM OUT!"

I run round the back and get caught in the fire of his personal bodyguards. I dive into the trees again and take cover. I watch him run, fingers crossed. "Please pick the right limo." I whisper.

Donald gets in one of the limos and drives off.

I get in the other, and turn the corner onto a new street so I could follow him without being spotted.

Gator looks out of his window to see Phil bolting down the pathway. He gears up the engine as Phil jumps through the window, and they speed off in the same direction as Love.

I get on my cell phone, to Gator. "Gator, which limo am I in?"

"I don't know, man! I didn't see!"

"Then for the love of God, don't detonate it! Are you sure you're chasing the right one?"

"We're heading South right now."

"Good. Keep tailing that limo. Take him out!"

I cut through side alleys, over train tracks and through tunnels, anything to get ahead of Love's limo.

Phil shoots his MP5 out the window of Gator's car at the limo not far ahead. The driver, obviously not adept to this sort of thing, continues on a straight line.

I can see the limo up ahead, gunfire streaming from the car behind it.

"He's turning right!" Gator says on the phone.

"Perfect. I'll catch him up no problem."

"He's turning right again!"

"I see him. He's coming towards me. Okay, I'm going to get out of the limo, and I want you to detonate the bomb, okay? We have to take a chance." I move to the pavement. "Okay. Go!"

I shield myself, as the limo I was in blows up. The windows smash, the engine blows, the paint melts away. I watch in horror. That could have been me. I hear a noise in the distance. Donald's limo.

I shoot as it whizzes past, but due to the speed it was travelling, I completely miss. Gator pulls up shortly afterwards, and I get in the back seat. The target is now a mere speck in the distance, but we follow.

"Not to worry." says Phil. "I think he will be surprised with what is in store for him. Just keep going straight."

We continue through the streets, littered with skyscrapers, office blocks, and small businesses. I take note of a couple for later.

We drive for about ten minutes, keeping the speck constantly in view. It starts to get bigger. I realise it must have stopped. Up ahead, several tanks and Barracks OLs are blocking the road. One of them waves, and shouts, "Hey Phil!"

We look curiously at Phil Cassidy.

"I knew some people who owed me favours."

Donald's limo is surrounded by people dressed in rural camouflage, with guns. Big guns.

Phil looks at us.

We nod.

Phil gives the thumbs up.

The men give way as we walk up. Donald Love is huddled in the back seat. His driver, motionless with fear in the front. I put a pistol to Donald's head, Phil does the same to the driver. Bang.

Donald looked into the barrel of the gun, and saw his life flash before his eyes. It was a life of greed, betrayal, domination, lies, deception and the fight for power.

God, he had lived the dream.

And then he was gone.


	11. Fire Sale

**A/N: this is a very long chapter. it took me a while to write and I think it is my best one yet. Tell me what you think!**

"First off, I'd like to congratulate you boys on a job well done." says Avery, as we gather round the office table. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"We want to expand business. There's a building down town that would be perfect." says Phil

"So what's the problem?"

"The building is already in use by another firm."

"Again, what's the problem?" Avery smiles.

"What are we supposed to do?"

"Trash the place, then make an "arrangement" with the manager. Its simple."

"Well. . .alright, Avery."

We decide to carry the plan out the next day. We wear coats covered in pockets for weapons, and carry an assortment of firearms. Tec-9s, Aks, and grenades, to name a few.

We drive to the building, a thirty storey skyscraper, a convenience store which has everything anyone could ever need, from food, to clothes, to medicinal drugs. Ironically, what it doesn't have is a metal detector. We stroll in. As soon as we enter, we notice the guards watching us like hawks. They catch a glimpse of the metal in my hand, and begin to reach for their holstered guns. I whisper to my team mates that we may be in danger. I feel time slow down. The men pull out their pistols, and we dive to the ground, rolling for cover behind the counter, amidst the array of bullets. Phil pulls the pin on a grenade, and tosses it into the centre of the floor. The mass of guards scramble as the blast knocks some of them off their feet. The fire from the explosion starts to spread, blocking the exit.

"Looks like we're in for the long haul now, fellas." says Phil, in a disturbingly excited way.

We make a break for the elevator, but the flames beat us, and we are forced to cover ourselves from the fire.

"Shit!"

We dash through the gunfire to the stairs, where the upper level guards are making their way down. We gun down most of them and seek refuge among the shelves on the next floor. Gator and I duck behind the boxes as Phil shoots wildly. Judging by the screams he is doing okay. He runs further on, closer to the staircase to the third level, unloading clip after clip into the store security. I can hear shouting and see the shadows of more guards coming from the floor below.

"Oh no you don't!" I yell, before shooting the wires on the light hanging from the ceiling, causing it to fall in front of the stairway. The fire spreads and creates a barrier, preventing the guards from getting any closer. "That'll hold em, at least."

"C'mon!" yells Phil as he runs up to the next level.

Gator and I follow, keeping low to the ground under the line of fire.

_Third Floor – Liquor _

We each grab a bottle of alcohol, light an oil stained rag, and toss it. The resulting effect is not quite as spectacular as we intended, but it holds the guards off until we reach the next floor. The reception desk is situated directly in the middle of this floor, so we leap behind it. Phil and Gator tackle the oncoming opponents, and I keep the rear. Three uniformed men with the store name printed on their shirts slowly sidle up the stairs. I load my Ak with anticipation. A shot knocks it out of my hands.

"Gator! Sniper! Take him out!"

"Where the fuck is he?"

"Find him dumb ass, I have other problems!"

I pick up my gun and fill the attackers with bullet holes, each shot jerking them into a different disfiguring pose.

Gator scouts the vicinity for the mystery sniper. It starts raining bullets.

"There's more than one of them!" he screams.

"Next level!" yells Phil. "Move out!"

We reach level four, where an army of store police officers are waiting.

"I can't take this any more," says Phil. "We're taking the easy way out."

He grabs hold of an innocent shopper, and holds the gun to her head. The guards hesitate. He takes her, and walks over to the elevator, always facing the gunners. We follow. He feels around behind him and presses the button on the door. We wait silently for a few seconds until it arrives at our floor. The door slowly opens, revealing an armed man. He cocks his gun.

"Phil, duck!" I yell, and shoot the man in the head, causing an outburst of gunfire from everyone else on the floor. We clamber into the elevator, still with our hostage, and shut the door behind us, bullets denting the metal. He presses for the top floor – the manager's suite.

As the elevator goes up, Phil speaks. "Okay, this room will be heavily guarded, so get ready. Load your guns, and have them pointed at the door." he looks at the panicking woman. "You sit in the corner and out of harm's way." She nods nervously.

The elevator gives out a cheery tone, breaking the stony silence in the room. The doors slowly open. We commence fire on the occupants before they know we are there. The guards turn round and are greeted with round upon round of metal bullets. The manager tips his desk over and ducks behind it. We ignore him for the time being. We continue to fire on the bodyguards, Phil using his hostage for immunity. I duck and roll through the onslaught, and grab the manager. Everyone stops. Phil guns down the rest of the bodyguards as Gator and I both hold guns to the manager's head. There is no one left.

We bring the manager to his feet.

"Wh. . .what do you w. . .want?" he asks.

"To take over this building." I say, and walk him to the edge of the room.

"I'm afraid that is out of the question." he croaks.

He takes out a gun and holds it threateningly, as he edges towards the window. He takes off his coat, revealing the parachute underneath. He looks at Gator, and I see the twinkle in his eye. He steadies his gun hand. . .

"NO!" I dive at the man as the bullet leaves the gun and enters the wall above Gator's head. He staggers backward, unbalanced, and falls from the ledge, as I wrestle with him for the gun.

"Oh, SHIT!"

We plummet down several floors before the idiot remembers his parachute. He pulls the chord, and I wrap my legs around his waist to grip and jostle for the gun in his hands. We fight for it, as the breeze controls our direction and we sway slowly downward. The ground is still a great distance away, and the people and cars look like distant specks. I pummel the man with his gun while it remains in his grip. Beaten and bloody, he finally relents. I hold it with a sense of achievement, near his head.

"Go on. Kill me. I dare you." he says

"What?"

"You kill me now, and you get to soar to the ground and into the arms of the police force, with a dead body next to you. It's going to seem rather suspicious."

"Dammit, you're right."

I feel defeated, stupid, angry. I let the wind carry us down further, until an idea strikes me. The shopping mall is still within touching distance, and there is an open window further down. I start swinging my legs to gain momentum, and launch myself through the window. I shoot the parachutist with his gun, and turn around. . .

"It's ours now." says Gator, back in the manager's suite.

"Very well done gentlemen." says a man as he enters the room. His voice, though calm and collected, has an icy edge to it. "But. . .I'm afraid, he was not the manager. The manager has already escaped in that helicopter." He points to the chopper as it leaves the roof.

"Damn. I don't suppose you know anyone else that owes you a favour, Phil?"

He shakes his head.

"Where is he headed?" demands Gator.

"I'm afraid I cannot tell you. But he has left me in charge until he returns."

Phil and Gator stare at him in disbelief.

"Big. Mistake. Buddy." says Phil.

"Oh, was it really? You fellows won't ever leave this building alive." He produces a flame-thrower.

"Shit! Look out!" Gator tackles him as he triggers the weapon. The flame singes his skin. He pins the man to the floor, and Phil approaches his head. He puts a pistol into the man's mouth.

"I pity the person we hire to clean this place up." he says, and shoots the man, spilling crimson liquid over the floor.

"No time to relax, Phil," says Gator, "we still have to get out of here. The bottom floors are almost completely engulfed in flames and the place is bound to be teeming with guards. I can solve one problem." He reaches into his backpack and takes out some sort of bomb. "This thing contains a poisonous gas. I can set it on time release and leave it to go off. Nothing can possibly survive something like this." he says with an evil grin.

"And I think I've solved the other problem." says Phil. He walks out of the cupboard with two parachutes. "So, Gator, set the bomb, and we jump."

Gator sets the timer, giving them plenty of time to escape. They pull on the parachutes and move over to the window.

"Phil, you ever done this before?"

"Sure. You scared?"

"Yeah, a little."

"Just go on the count of three, okay? THREE!"

"Dammit, Phil!"

I turn around. Facing me are several guards. The don't look happy. Everything freezes for a second, before sparks burst from every gun , and millions of bullets fly in my direction. I keep my head low and run full tilt through the barrage of bullets. Fighting back would be futile so I just run and run. The exits are blocked. The staircases to higher and lower floors are all blockaded. I hide behind a counter. Bullets fly all around me. The elevator!

I get back on my feet and sprint for the elevator.

Its on another floor, and apparently out of order.

"Shit!"

I see the cable that the elevator runs on. It leads all the way down to the bowels of the building. I debate whether to chance it, but I feel the air getting thicker, and begin to choke on it. The guards are temporarily occupied, choking also, so I grab the wire and slide down, detaching on the first floor. I see all the other guards fall to the ground, holding their stomachs. I try not to breathe. I head for the door, still covered in flames, and dive head first through the fire. I roll and land at Gator's feet. Everything goes black.

When I come to, I'm back at the old Ammunation building. Gator is polishing a shotgun and Phil is on the phone.

"Yeah? Well I don't care how messed up it is, you better clean it! What do you mean it's my mess? Of course it is! That's why _I_ hire _you _ to clean it. Never mind what happened there, just do it!" He slams the phone down hard and joins Gator.

They walk over to me. "We're headin' out. Gonna seize us some new land. There's a car showroom and mod shop that would be perfect for our new line of merchandise. I can see it now, "kill people without leaving your car", it'll be perfect!"

I start to get up, but Gator stops me. "You better stay here, you got gassed pretty bad and you don't look so good." I lie back down. "We'll handle this." They load their guns, and leave.

I sit awake. How am I supposed to relax when they could be in trouble? Or when I'm left in this huge building, alone?

A hear a noise. The echo bounces off the walls, singing harmoniously. It is a song which instills me with fear.

I hear the sound of a gun going off, and the shells hitting the ground with a cold, steely tone. Then silence. Then footsteps, perfectly synchronised, keeping a steady beat as they gain in volume. My heart beats faster, as the footsteps get closer. I look around. I'm totally defenceless. A sitting duck. There is nothing else to do but sit.

Gator and Phil enter their car and drive across town to the shop. They stop around the corner, where they won't be seen.

"Remember the plan?" says Phil.

"I got it." says Gator.

"Okay. Go."

Gator leaves the safety of the car, and approaches the Autoparts garage. He runs the plan over in his head several times, until he is at the door. He walks around nonchalantly, and spies one of the heavily modded cars. The keys lie in the ignition, tempting him. He checks around, making sure _everyone_ is looking, and gets in the car.

He shouts a loud, "fuck you" at the mechanics, and peels off into the street.

Phil watches from the car as six other cars leave the garage after him.

"Now it's my turn."

Phil entered the now deserted shop and casually swept everything from the shelves onto the floor, giggling feverishly. He got in one of the cars, and drove after Gator, throwing a Molotov out the sunroof on the way.

A shotgun lies on the table in the hall. Should I risk going for it? I contemplate for a second, as the footsteps thump thump thump in my head. I hear deep, nasal breathing. Coarse and threatening sounding.

The figure skulks through the shadows of the building, his breath condensing in front of him. He holds a doubled barrelled shotgun close to his chest, as he creeps silently around the building. The building is a maze of corridors and rooms. He reaches a door. It is closed. He smirks silently to himself, loads the gun with a malevolent click, steps back. With a crash he bursts through the door and points his gun at the bed. He pauses. The room is empty. He turns round to leave, and is at head height with my gun.

I grin and watch the bullet sail through his head and through the wall behind him. The shot rings out through the otherwise deserted building. He doesn't have time to scream. I check the briefcase the man was carrying. Inside are several crumpled documents. One looks like a floor plan of the building. It shows where the man was to plant the bomb. _Bomb?_ Oh, shit, I don't see a bomb in his case. He must have already planted it. I grab the case, a gun, and some money and exit through the rusty double doors. I get in my car, and begin a long drive to the store where Gator and Phil are taking over.

Gator looks in his rear view mirror and panics. They are right on his tail, chasing him in high performance cars, and clipping his bumper to try and run him off the road. He stops the car abruptly.

"Well, well. Nice of you to keep up." he says. "This is the part where you _die_."

"I don't think so, holmes." says one of the men as he ducks behind his car. The rest do the same.

"I suppose it is about time for my real surprise." Gator fumbles in his pocket for his "surprise." He produces a small black box. He smiles at the others. "Sayonara" he says, before pressing the box. In a fiery inferno, the six cars go up in flames, and explode, spreading wreckage everywhere. Gator stands in the middle of it, the wind from the explosion blowing in his face. He grins like a maniac. "Oh, yes. This is what I was _born_ to do, baby." He turns back to his own car, where the Hispanic guy is starting his car.

"So long, holmes." he yells as he drives away. Gator looks on in utter dismay. He sighs, "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this."He presses a different detonator and sees the smoke rising in the distance. "Waste of a good car if you ask me." Phil limps over to him angrily. "You didn't tell me you put a bomb in _all _the cars, dumb ass."

I drive up to the Autoparts store and see the flames inside. "Shit! Phil! Gator! You in there?"

I force my way through the flames, hand over my mouth so as not to inhale the poisonous fumes. The oxygen is low. The place must have been burning for a while. I search every space, and make for the exit. The fire hisses and spits, slowing my retreat, and when I am a few feet from the door, the roof collapses over it. The heavy timber lies in a heap. I feel as if it is mocking me. I choke and fall to my knees briefly, but manage to keep my consciousness. I stumble wearily into the upstairs showroom. My means of escape stares me in the face. A car. A monster truck. Keys in the ignition. Doors unlocked. Second storey glass window ahead. I gear up the truck and reverse to the other end of the building, then floor it back across, through the window with a crash as the entire top floor collapses. My head hits the roof of the car when I land, but I continue to drive forward, wondering where Phil and Gator could be. Shit! What if they went back to the building? That place is wired to blow and who knows when it could go off! I drive top speed back to the Ammunation, trampling other road vehicles on the way. When I stop outside, I see them walking up the path.

"I thought you were resting?" says Gator.

"Guys, we have a major problem." I pant.

"Can we discuss it inside?"

"NO!" I scream. "the whole freakin' building is gonna blow. Look, I don't know who, but someone is trying to kill us, and I think it would be safer if we moved into our new building and let as little people know as possible." As I finish the sentence, every window in the building smashes, and smoke and fire pour out. "See?"

"Okay." says Gator. "Hey we got that new car shop now too."

"No we don't." I say. "Well, we have half of one. Who was the idiot who threw the Molotov inside?" Phil raises his hand. "Yeah. Thanks Phil."

After salvaging what we can from the wreckage of the old building we move to the new one. When we get there we see several people in aprons standing in line. The cleaners.

Phil takes the lead. "Ah, wonderful job. See what you can do when you put your mind to it?"

"Cram it fat ass. We know." says one of the triad cleaners. He has "Mr Wong's Home Cleaning Service" stitched on his apron.

"Know what?" I ask, slightly nervous.

"We know what you have been up to here. The price of cleaning may be low but our silence is costly. Very costly."

Phil tirns to Gator and I. "Should we kill them?" he whispers.

"What? And ruin the wonderful job they did cleaning this place? No way!"

"Yeah," says Gator. "at least lead them outside first."

"Yeah you're right," whispers Phil. He turns back to the disgruntled triads. "Gentlemen," he says in his kindest tone of voice, "if you would please follow me."

Phil turns his back on the men and motions for them to follow him outside. I stand at the back and see one of the triads reach for an Uzi.

"Phil! Gator! Take cover!"

I grab the man's gun arm ands twist it around, until he releases the gun, as Phil and Gator duck behind the triad's van for safety. All the other triads pull out handguns and shoot wildly at me as I roll out of sight, behind the van. We nod, and exchange signals, before destroying every triad in sight in a frenzy of blood and gore. Gator walks over to one of the survivors, who is severely wounded. He puts a gun to the man's head.

"And remove the bomb." he says.

The man retreats into the building and comes back with the explosives.

"I'll have those." says Gator.

"You'll be sorry," says the man, "any moment now my brothers will show up to avenge me."

"Really?" says Phil. "Pity you won't be around to see it then." he shoots a bullet into the man's skull, shielding his eyes from flying pieces of bone and bullet. "Okay, everyone into the van."

"Phil these vans smell."

"Shut up, Gator."

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Gonna head off the triads. Grab an Ak. I'm driving."

"You sure that's a good idea, Phil?"

"Of course. Now hurry up."

Phil takes the van out onto the street, almost tipping it over as he turns the corner.

"Practice, boys, practice."

Five triad fish vans spot us as we pass, and begin chase.

We turn onto the main street, a seemingly endless stretch of road, where speed limit means nothing, a favored place for criminals in police chases. People look in their wing mirrors and see the van speeding towards them, sigh, and pull in as we pass. Phil drives like a freaking maniac.

Gator and I open the back doors of the van, which are immediately blown off from the wind at the high speed, and shoot our attacker's means of transportation. The vans form some sort of positioning tactic, be splitting into two lines of two with a leader at the front. The front man weaves through the bullets, tipping from side to side. Gator unleashes several bullets at the windshield, smashing it to pieces. The passenger door opens and the body of a man slumps out, and is trampled on by the other vans. The driver stares in disbelief out of the open door, then loses control when I pop one of his tyres. He skids and swerves, but is unable to continue, and causes a blockade.

"Oh yeah, " smirks Gator, "almost forgot."

He picks up the bomb from the triad ambush and tosses it with force into the centre of the pile up.

"Do you have the detonator?" asks Phil as we start to drive back.

"The what?" We all stare at him accusingly. "Just kidding!"he laughs as the pile up erupts with fire and smoke, tearing away part of the road.

We continue back to the new building.

A man crawls out of the wreckage, burnt, bruised and bleeding. He gets to his feet, and limps back to Wong's Laundrette, anger in his blood and revenge in his eyes.

"So Phil, do you think it was the triads that put the bomb in the old building?"

"I don't know, but we should probably sleep with one eye open anyway."

We step over the mass of corpses lining the path.

"Who are we gonna get to clean this up?" asks Gator.

Phil hands him a broom and says cheerily, "You!"

Gator grumbles into acceptance and starts hauling the bodies into the van. "Hey Phil, we got a live one here."

"Bring him in."

Gator hauls the partially unconscious man into the meeting area.

Everyone gathers around the meeting area, with only a very dim light illuminating the thick darkness, and casting eerie shadows along the walls. Phil wanted to add to the atmosphere.

"Hello. Mr Wong." he says, letting the light emphasise his intimidating smile.

"H. . .how did you know my name?" says the man, still a little dazed.

"Please, Mr Wong, everyone knows you. You are practically a celebrity."

"Wh. .what do you want from me?"

"Answers, my friend, answers. This particular building was almost blown to smithereens earlier today. Was this your doing?"

"I'm afraid I cannot say."

Phil nods to Gator and I. A click is heard as we each load our guns.

Mr Wong gulps. "Okay, it was me! It was my idea."

"Thank you, my friend. I knew some gentle _persuasion_ would change your mind. Now, even earlier today, our previous accommodation was rigged with explosives. What do you know about it?"

"Sir, I can assure you that my men were not inside, or even near your building."

"That is not what I asked you. I asked you what you _knew _about it, not what you did not know."

"Very well. I know who is responsible. . ." A shot is heard, and Mr Wong collapses over the table, with a bullet in his back.

"DAMMIT! That bastard just silenced our lead!" says Phil pointing at the man as he leaps out of the window. "Chase him down, idiots!"

We run outside, but the mystery sniper has already driven away in his car.

"Shit." Not again."

we walk back inside, looking at the ground. "Lost him." mutters Gator.

"Looks like we got an enemy then, guys." says Phil. "Bout time we go some real competition."

**A/N: Thanks for reading. I'll continue this when I can but I'm concentrating mostly on GTA Big Brother just now. Read my other stuff if you like this. I have some short stories which are sort of like this, and Big Brother, which is a humour story and is quite long. read and review! review review review!**


	12. Stepping On Toes

**A/N: thanks to Sid Hawk for the chapter idea. I don't think I followed it exactly, but I went with something along those lines. Hope you like it!**

_Leone mansion, in the business district of the city. _

Joey Leone waits patiently for the arrival of his scheduled visitor. He is joined in one of the many lounge areas in his elaborately decorated home by his business partners and associates Luigi Goterelli and Toni Cipriani. Luigi's man Mickey Hamfists ploughs his way into the room. A sheepish looking young man clad in a black leather jacket and green cargo pants follows.

"So. . ." says Joey, "Where's my good news, huh?"

The man shrugs his shoulders and stares at his shoes, avoiding eye contact.

"I didn't think so. I paid you big bucks to kill those guys, and thanks to your crappy workmanship we lost one of our best leads down there. Mr Wong, despite what the rest of the Triads or Mafia want to believe, was a close and personal friend of mine. You tell me how it is fair that he dies, and the guy who murdered my father lives? You tell me how that is fair!"

The man steps back as Joey lunges at him, but Mickey holds Joey back..

"C'mon, Joey," says Toni Cipriani, "I'm tellin' ya he's a good kid, ya know? Give him another chance. We all make mistakes, Joey."

At this, a small boy, probably around seven or eight, dressed smartly in a white shirt and bow tie strolls into the room, followed by a woman, wearing far too much make-up, a short skirt and high heels.

"Joey," she squawks, "I'm taking little Joey Junior out for a while."

"Alright, Misty." he sighs.

She blows him a kiss. He catches it half heartedly. She and her son leave through the front door.

"See, Joey," continues Toni, "even you make mistakes."

Joey sits silently for a few seconds.

"Alright, kid," he says finally, "you get one more chance. You, Toni, Luigi and Mickey go back over and pay those guys a visit."

"What about you, Joey?" asks Luigi.

"I'll go about my own lines of inquiry."

They start to vacate the room.

"On second thoughts, Hamfists," Mickey turns round, "Hamfists you stay here. I have something else for you."

"Okay, boss." says Mickey Hamfists.

The trio get in an unmarked Mafia Sentinel parked in the driveway in front of Joey's mansion and begin the long drive across town in silence.

Meanwhile, back in the new and improved Ammunation, the three of us are staring at the body of the now deceased Mr Wong.

"Tsk. What a waste."

"And he was about to give us vital information!" says Gator.

"Would you two stop whinin'!" yells Phil. "It's no big deal."

"No big deal? Phil, this guy is. . ._was_ one of _the _most respected members of the Triad family. Of course it's a big deal!"

"I guess we should give the body back to the Triads." says Gator.

"Are you crazy?" Phil shouts. "What do you expect to say? "Oh, by the way, here is the corpse of your leader. He died from a sniper bullet in the back in our building. It wasn't us though! Honest!" Come on, Gator, try to be realistic."

"Well what are we gonna do?"

"_You, _are going to put the body into a car, and take it to the crusher."

"But that's all the way across town!"

"All the more reason to go now."

Gator mumbles to himself as he drags the lifeless, limp corpse outside and throws it into the trunk of a car. When I notice what he is doing, I run out after him.

"Hey! That's my Greenwood! You're not crushing that!"

"C'mon, man, it's a piece of crap – you don't even use it!"

"Use your car!"

"My car? _My_ car is a 1986 model Banshee. A rarity these days. You would happily sacrifice one of those to save this rust bucket?"

"But it's not even your car – you stole it from some guy this morning!"

"That's not the point. The point is – shut up, I'm taking your car!"

"Hey, kid," yells Phil, "just let him go. You can get a new car."

"Whatever."

I watch as Gator drives off in my precious car, knowing I'll never see it again.

The rear bumper falls off.

Wow.

It really is a piece of crap.

Gator holds the wheel of the car lazily with one hand, while resting the other out the rolled down window. It is a beautiful Summer day, around two o'clock. There isn't a cloud in the sky, so the scorching sun beams down through the dazzling blue sky, and the wind gently ruffles the leaves in the trees. Gator cruises along the straight country roads, nothing but one long drive directly ahead, lined with huge green trees for as far as the eye can see.

Above him on the overhead motorway a few hundred yards ahead, the trio in the Sentinel have pulled into the side of the road.

"Piece of shit!" screams Toni as he smashes his fists off the dashboard.

"Oh, yeah Toni. Hit it. That'll _really_ help." mutters Luigi.

"You want some of this too?" Toni makes a fist.

"Let's just call up and get a tow truck."

"No! We can't!"

"Why not?"

"We can't show up to kill these guys on the back of a freakin' truck! What are ya, dumb?"

"Then what are we gonna do? Huh? Mr. Smart ass?"

"Steal a new car."

"On the free way?" snorts Luigi. "Be my guest."

Toni pulls the silver handle to open the car door, which is abruptly torn off by a passing motorist.

"On second thoughts, maybe we should call that company. We can get a ride to Transfender or somethin'."

"Can't we just go straight there?" asks Luigi.

"Dammit, I wanna make a good impression!"

"What are they gonna care? They'll only live to see us for a few seconds anyway."

"Just get on the damn phone! And you –" he points to the silent passenger, "quit yer laughin' or I'll toss you out the car too, capiche?"

The man in the back nods quickly and stretches, preparing himself for a long wait.

"Uh. . .yes. . .hello. Um. . .we need to be towed. We have some. . .uh. . .important business to attend to. . .so. . . sure, I'll hold."

Toni and the other passenger sigh together.

About an hour later, Gator arrives at the car crusher. He drives down the gravel slope, and parks his car over the X marked in red paint on the ground, before exiting the vehicle. He walks a few steps towards the small control room, and is grabbed fiercely from behind.

The captor wraps one arm tightly around his victim's head, and punches him full force in the jaw with his brass knuckles. Gator slumps over, unconscious. He is thrown into the back seat of the Greenwood with the door closed behind him, as the attacker walks towards the control room.

"Nice work, Hamfists," says a voice, "but I think we want him alive right now."

Mickey nods, and sits in Joey's limousine.

Joey, dressed in a pale blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up, and dirty blue trousers walks over to the Greenwood and looks at Gator.

"I had a feeling I would find you here." he says to the body. "You may prove very useful, my friend. I dare say your life depends on it."

He snaps his fingers and Hamfists appears. Joey motions with his hands, and Hamfists hauls the body back to the limousine.

Joey moves to the trunk, and opens it.

He stares down at Mr Wong, seeing the empty but accusing stare in his white eyes. Joey bows his head down.

"Don't worry. Your death won't go unavenged."

It hurt him to see one of his friends, stuffed carelessly into the trunk, even more so because he felt partially responsible for his death. Joey sighed and wiped away a tear. He placed a rose into the trunk of the car, and sent it away.

He got into the passenger seat of his luxury limousine, the sound of the car crusher a distant hum, the life of his friend a distant memory.

Hamfists sat in the back, pistol loaded and ready in case Gator tried to be a hero. Gator, still unconscious, lay sprawled out along the back seat, breathing slowly, occasionally coughing. Joey sat silent in the front with his hands on his lap and his head bent forward. The chauffeur decided it best not to ask questions, and simply concentrate on driving.

Phil Cassidy and I sit at opposite ends of the large conference table, the best money could buy, as requested by Phil after the tragic loss of his old one.

"Any thoughts on who's been messing with us, Phil?"

"Ah, I've made too many enemies over the years to pick out anyone, kid What about you?"

"Nah, I tend to kill people I don't like, so. . .I don't see anyone living long enough to want revenge on me."

"I think we may find out soon enough who's behind it all. They can't stay silent forever, we're too crafty for all that stealth shit."

"You think so?"

"Nah, but it's definitely the right attitude to have. Make yourself invincible, don't expose your flaws, and nothing and no one can take you out. Be on your guard anyway."

"Got a piece?"

"Ah, there's a crate upstairs. Come on."

I follow Phil to the second floor. The sign above the door once read "Cosmetics". Now, Phil had scribbled "trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again", and had drawn a crude picture of himself holding a gun. Gator and I had tried to dissuade him but he simply grunted and waved his gun threateningly, so we let him be. To him, this place is his own little war camp, thirty floors of ammo, guns, explosives and hard liquor. Good for him.

He pries the lid off the crate with a crowbar, revealing an assortment of guns. I pocket twin Uzis and grasp a Desert Eagle in my hands, while Phil opts for an M4. He had developed a method of firing it with his one hand, by pressing the butt against his breast. He always said that with skill like that and two arms, he would be unstoppable. At the time, Gator and I agreed once again. I prefer not to argue with gun wielding men of questionable sanity.

Phil covers the crate with a thin sheet of green material to "camouflage it" and we return downstairs to the main conference area next to the entrance.

Feeling the gun in my hand fills me with mixed emotions. I feel safe now that I can defend myself, but guns always lead to danger, and I know it can't be far off. I sit quietly, loading the gun every once in a while to be safe.

A noise from outside distracts me. It's a sort of roaring, thundering noise, but it sounds distant.

"Hey Phil, you hear that?"

"Yeah, let's check it out."

We stand near the double doors, and open them a crack. Outside, a large Packer truck carrying a Mafia Sentinel stops.

Slowly, two men in black suits step out of the car. The one in the front has a shotgun and the other has a pistol.

"We have come to kill you." says the man with the shotgun.

"Really, how do you expect us to take you seriously when you arrive in a tow truck?" Phil smirks.

"I told ya we shoulda got it fixed!" Toni whispers to Luigi.

"Shut up, you're ruinin' it!"

The passenger steps out of the car slowly, creating an impression that he's not to be messed with. He stands by Luigi.

"Well then," says Phil, reclaiming the attention, "let's do this." He cocks his gun – an amazing feat for a one armed man – and aims it.

He fires a shot near Luigi's foot to startle them, and ducks and rolls back behind the door.

"Kid, take a car and try and lead some of them away. Three on two aint fair. I can take two of em on, but I need you take the other one."

"Got it, Phil!"

I run inside and grab Gator's keys for his Banshee. I fumble with them in my hands as I run outside, and drop them on the ground. I bend down to get them, but a black shoe comes down on my hand. I look up, the young man from the car stares down the long barrel of his Colt Python at me.

Shit.

"KID, DUCK!" yells Phil as a hail of bullets soar my way. The man dives to the ground and gives me a chance to run. I toss the drivers out of the Packer truck and gear up. The truck lurches forward reluctantly, and Luigi and Toni tumble off the back.

I manage to get the truck doing fifty on the freeway not too far ahead. I make a quick check to see if I'm being followed, and see the stranger with the leather jacket throttling after me in Gator's red and white 1986 Banshee. Perfect.

He weaves through traffic, skids round corners, but constantly has to slow down to save himself from launching off the back of the Packer.

The chase is on.

Back at Ammunation, Phil retreats to the now fully functional elevator, and presses a random floor.

Outside, Toni and Luigi pick themselves up off the road and enter.

A voice crackles over the tannoy.

"_So you want to play? How about some Hide and Seek?"_

Gator wakes up in an alien environment. He is in a dark, windowless room, furnished only by a table and two matching chairs, one of which he is bound to. His head aches, and feels heavy and difficult to keep upright.

A familiar looking man enters the room. Joey.

He takes a seat across from Gator, cracks his fingers and neck, and clasps his hands on the table.

Another man in a blue/purple suit enters with a bat. Gator already knew what the bat would be for.

Joey stares across the table, his fiery gaze burning into Gator, making him feel extremely uncomfortable. The light flickers off his face, adding more menace to his already ghastly grin.

"They say every man has his price." he says. "Let us find out yours."

"Who the hell are you?" yells Gator loudly.

Joey presses his fingers to his lips. "Shh. There is no need to shout, _Blake."_

"How the hell did you know my real name?" whispers Gator suspiciously. "No one knows my real name!"

"I know a lot about you. But that is not why you are here."

"You're damn right! I'm here because this jackass beat the shit outta me!"

Mickey swings the bat so it comes in contact with Gator's face.

"Please, Mickey, we want Mr Blake here to feel welcome. No pressure."

"Please man," whispers Gator, "drop the Blake thing. Please?"

"Very well, _Gator_. Tell me, are you _happy_, Gator?"

_Back at the Ammunation building_

"_Confused, gentlemen? I suppose that is understandable. You have thirty floors to search through."_

"Where the hell are you?" yells Toni.

"_Keep searching for now. You give up far too easily."_

_Somewhere in Joey's mansion_

Gator has been beaten to a pulp now by Mickey, with Joey's approval, for refusing to cooperate. His face is swollen and blue, his eye sockets a deep shade of purple, his lips tinged red with blood.

"Are you ready to listen now, Mr Gator?"

Gator spits blood onto the table in front of him. Joey nods to Hamfists, who smashes the bat off of the back of Gator's head with a malevolent sounding crack.

"Let us try again, Mr Gator. Are you ready to cooperate?"

Gator swallows a mouthful of blood. "What do you want?" he mutters.

"Join me."

"What? Never!"

"Why not?"

"You're a corrupt, evil fucking bastard, that's why!"

"But tell me, Gator, do you get the respect you deserve from your co-workers? Do they treat you equally?"

"Well, no, I guess not. Phil always makes me do the boring jobs. But they're good guys, you know? I don't really mind."

"Are you sure you don't mind? Doesn't it get frustrating, Gator? Don't you feel like all you are there for is to take care of the dirty work? They _use _you, Gator. Do you think that is fair?"

"Well, no. But -"

"I treat all my men equally, and with respect. I never bully my workers or make their lives hard. It's easy street, baby, and they love it. So. . .join me."

"Well. . ."

_On the freeway_

He's still following me.

The road is less busy now, occupied only by a few cars in sight. To be honest, I'm getting a bit bored driving. . .Think I'll stop now.

Yeah.

I slam my foot down on the brake, and hear the sound of screeching tyres behind me. There is a slight jolt, presumably from the Banshee driving over the Packer.

Ah, that's what it was. I see the Banshee soar through the sky ahead, and plummet into a river. It is quickly submerged.

My phone rings, and I answer.

"Hey, Phil."

"Hey, how ya doin'? Ya busy?"

"Not really."

"You wanna come back and help me sort out these two assholes, then?"

"Sure, whatever." I hang up and put my phone back in my pocket. I turn the truck round and head back.

I see a shadow reflecting on the road in front. I stare hard through the windshield to see what is causing it.

I blink.

"Ah! Shit!"

When I reopen my eyes, I see the head of my pursuer hanging over the window.

He climbs onto the bonnet with his jacket over his hand and brass knuckles over his jacket.

He goes to punch the window, but I start the wipers and throw him off guard. I make a quick turn to the left and watch with satisfaction as he slides off the bonnet.

I sigh with relief.

After a few seconds of driving, I begin to hear a repeating thumping noise on the car door, and eventually a hand penetrates the window.

I steer in close to other cars in an attempt to break him off, but he continues to hold on.

I take one of the Uzis out of my pocket.

His hand disappears from sight. Maybe he heard me load the gun.

I shouldn't have to worry, anyway. Ammunation is in sight, and I will be there soon.

I hear the glass shatter behind me, but before I have a chance to react, a leather sleeved arm extends through the sunroof and seizes me by the throat, and begins choking the life out of me.

My eyes water, the road ahead turns blurry and I can't see where I'm going.

I blink, clearing the water away from my eyes in time to see the enormous bulk of the Ammunation building hurtling towards me.

The hand is slowly released from my throat.

I open my car door, raise my hands over my head, and dive.

I roll upon landing, in time to see the Packer collide with the building.

_His_ body lies motionless in front of it.

I run inside. "Phil," I whisper into my phone, "I'm in."

"_Gentlemen, you have searched long enough. You will find me on the roof, ready to settle this."_

I feel an eerie presence in the building all of a sudden. I have to find Phil. He will be on the roof, of course. That is where he always handles business of this sort.

I go to the elevator but it is in use. There's no way I'll have time to climb thirty floors, so I wait.

The roof is surrounded by a small, foot high wall. Like that would stop anyone falling. Phil gazes over the edge to the minuscule world below. Those people, they have no idea about what is going to take place. Many of them have no idea about the true corruption of the city, the Mafia, the Yakuza, the Triads, it's all a rich tapestry of seedy underground rackets and violence. If only they knew. . .

Phil spits over the edge and goes to wait by the elevator, armed with a sawn off shotgun, illegally acquired of course.

He holds it in his outstretched arm casually, as if he has done this sort of thing many times before.

_He _knows what he is doing. _He knows _the true corruption, and he knows the only way to stop it is to blow the shit outta it before it does the same to you.

The elevator whirs and clicks behind the iron plated door. Soon the door would slide open, into that life or death moment he longs for. The adrenaline and the action are what he craves.

_Ping._

The elevator gives off a cheery tone, almost muffled by the rumbling of the door opening. A man walks out.

_Click._

"Ah. Luigi, aint it? I must say, it will be a pleasure to blow your brains all over the floor."

Luigi stands in shock.

The stairway door bursts open with an incredible force, revealing the scowling figure of Toni Cipriani, silhouetted by the light of the sun, his trademark shotgun held firmly in his grip.

_Click._

"Drop it, Phil."

Phil visibly shakes a little – the horror of _him_ being told to _surrender. . ._does not. . ._work._

"Not on the ground, Phil." Toni's voice becomes a sort of whisper. "I want you to drop it over the edge."

Phil sighs, and releases his grip on the shotgun, sending it plummeting down to Earth.

He sags a little.

"Well, I never thought I'd be the one to kill Phil Cassidy. Really, I didn't."

"And you won't."

"Huh?" says Toni, without turning round.

_Click._

Toni feels a chilling sensation as the neck of my gun is pressed against the back of his head.

"T. . .Toni," stutters Luigi. "Be. . Behind you. . .it's -"

Luigi's words are cut short by a blow to the face from Phil, who grabs the pistol out of his hand, and pivots round behind him, gun aimed squarely on his head.

_Click._

"Heh heh! Nice going, kid!" chuckles Phil. "Now we got em!"

"I don't think this is over, Phil."

The almost deafening sound of helicopter blades circulating fills the air. Papers and dirt fly everywhere. My jacket billows in the wind behind me. The helicopter stops, and hovers a few feet higher the roof and a few feet away from it.

The door slides open, revealing Joey Leone in a greasy mechanic's suit, his hair slicked back with gel.

He lets the wind ruffle his clothing. Behind him, Gator and the man that had been chasing me were standing, under the watchful eye of Mickey Hamfists.

"You murdered my father! And you killed my best friend!" Joey yells over the roaring sound of the chopper.

"Joey, we didn't kill him!"

"Then, YOU!" He points to the man in the leather jacket. "YOU killed him! I'm gonna rip your fucking heart out and show it to you!"

"Joey, Wong was about to rat you out to us. That guy did you a favour by killing him. Wong couldn't have been a true friend."

"Damn. . ."

We wait through the silence, Toni and Luigi visibly trembling now as we continue to hold them still.

"And speaking of friends," yells Phil, "these two are gonna get it now!" Phil presses the gun harder into Luigi's neck.

"Go ahead." says Joey flatly.

"What?" says Phil, confused and a little upset. Joey was supposed to be mad at that and start a war, not give up.

"I said go ahead. I don't need them. I have real loyalty right here. In Blake."

Gator walks to the front of the 'copter beside Joey.

"_Blake? _Your name's _Blake? _Ahahahaha!" laughs Phil.

"What the hell are you doing with him, Gator? You're on our side!"

Gator stares at his feet with his head hanging.

Joey hands him a Colt Python. He looks up, his gun hand trembling.

"Go ahead, Gator." whispers Joey. "Take your pick."

Gator steadies his hand, and aims the gun at Phil, then at me, and at Phil again.

Gator sighs.

"Sorry." he says.

I close my eyes.

_Bang!_

I'm still alive. Oh, god, he must've hit Phil.

I open my eyes again slowly.

I dread to look, but I force myself to look in Phil's direction. I fear for the worst, but there he is, standing, jaw-dropped.

Gator is standing with the gun in his hands, sobbing slightly. His face has blood on it.

The other man is standing with a triumphant look on his face and his Colt Python held above his head.

The headless body of Joey Leone lies under him, thick, sticky blood oozing from his wound, brain matter splattered all over the wall of the chopper.

It is enough to make me physically sick.

Gator hasn't moved. He is still standing, looking at the ground hundreds of feet below him.

Toni and Luigi hold looks of puzzled disbelief.

"Gator, get over here."

Gator takes a deep breath, and lets it out with a sigh. He begins to take a step, but the helicopter jerks, causing him to slip.

"Gator!"

I watch as he falls forward, his hand grasping the top of the building for support.

"Phil, save him!"

"Uh. . .I'm kinds _busy._" he motions towards the man still in his grip.

"Oh. . .yeah."

I stare at his hand, watching him struggle to hold on. I move my gaze to the helicopter, where a man who was once my enemy is standing. I stare into his eyes pleadingly.

He nods, and leaps onto the roof. He then extends his arm and pulls Gator to his feet. Gator collapses onto his knees immediately after, then falls completely unconscious.

I watch the man in the leather jacket.

Toni laughs. "Heh. I knew that guy was good. If only that heartless bastard had given him a chance. Serves him right, what happened to him."

"Shut up!" I dig the gun in deeper.

"Sorry."

I look at the man again. "What's your name?"

He shrugs, and gets back into the helicopter.

"Well. . .thanks."

He nods to me, and shuts over the door. I see him take over the controls, and fly away into the distance.

"Wow. Glad all that's over."

"Uh. . .kid? We still have these two to worry about."

"Oh, yeah."

"What are your lives worth?" asks Phil with a smirk on his face.

"I can get ya girls. Lots of girls."

"Uh huh."

"And, I guess now that Joey's dead, I become the new Don." says Toni. "That means I practically run this city. I can get ya what ya want."

"And what's that?"

"Money!"

"Hey, kid, I like where this is goin'. What about you?"

"Sure, whatever."

"Besides, this was all Joey's idea. We didn't wanna kill you."

"You didn't?"

"Nah, we hated Salvatore as much as you did, kid, and I never could trust a Triad. As a matter of fact, I really respect you."

"Alright, you pleaded your case. You can go."

"Alright, swing by _my_ mansion sometime."

"What about Joey's wife and kid?" asks Luigi to Toni.

"Oh come on. You really think he was her only husband? That's not even his kid. Where do you think she was going all the times she went "out"? She was taking little "Joey Junior" to see his other daddies. It must be hell for that kid. One minute it's Joey Junior, then Harry Junior, Marty Junior, Mike Junior. I wonder if he'll even notice Joey is dead. Besides, Misty only uses these guys for money."

"Did he know that?"

"Nah."

"Heh heh. Dumb bastard."

"You got that right."

Slowly, we release our grip on the two, still keeping our guns on them. We walk them to the elevator carefully, and let them out the door.

"You two'll do pretty well outta this." says Toni. "Believe me."

We close the door, and take the elevator up to the roof to get Gator.

We carry him down and lay him on a couch until he regains consciousness.

He slowly sits up.

"Hey, _Blake_." says Phil.

"Hey, Gator, what made you abandon us?"

"I'm sorry, guys." he says, a little dazed. "I guess I forgot who I really was."

"You almost shot me, _Blake._" jokes Phil.

"And I'll do it again if you don't shut up with the Blake shit fatass!"

"Alright, alright. . ."

"But anyway, when I got that gun, I knew I couldn't do it. His promises were nothing but sweet words, I forgot for a sec that you guys offer me more than that. Friendship. And even if it means doing all the dirty work, I still wouldn't change for the world."

"Well that's good." says Phil. "Cos this place is a mess. Clean it up, I'll be upstairs getting drunk."

"Yeah, me too."

I follow Phil up the stairs.

Gator looks at the Colt Python, still in his hands.

He checks the clip.

"Heh. Not even loaded." he says to himself, before collapsing backwards onto the couch.

**A/N: Wow. That was a long chapter. I really didn't expect that, the previous one was really just a little challenge I had set for myself to try and write over four thousand words (which I did) but I didn't expect to ever write that much for a chapter again, and now here we are – just short of five thousand words. (five thousand and sixteen if you include this summary) Well, thanks for reading and reviewing everyone. If you want to suggest a chapter like Sid Hawk did, please send me it as an email or put it on my live journal so not to spoil the story for anyone who reads the reviews. (not that he did, or anything.).**


	13. Messin' With The Mobs

**A/N: And finally we have the name change! I knew it was coming and here it is. You may not like it, I'm not sure I like it either, but it's better than it was.**

A fairly long chapter here, it could have been longer but I wanted to put the "big event" next chapter. See if you know what it is, its pretty obvious.

**And without further stalling, I present Chapter 13 – Messin' with the Mobs.**

"A wise man once told me that the best way to make money is with a good old fashioned gang war." explains Phil. "Of course, he let the power go to his head, became really obsessed with money and I ended up killing him after he got stopped by an army of tanks."

"Yeah, Phil, that happened, like, three days ago."

"Y. . yeah. Whatever."

"So what are you implying?"

"Well, I heard of this one guy, he got himself a Cartel Cruiser and killed an important Yakuza member. Caused World War Fuckin' Three! Those guys were so damn pissed, and of course they thought it was the Cartel."

"Again, what are you implying?"

"How about we go work for some other gangs? Do some jobs for them, _earn their trust_, then when they're not lookin'. . .BLAM! HA!"

"You think it might work without the "BLAM! HA!"?"

"There's always a first time. . ."

"So. . .which gangs?" asks Gator.

"Let's see. . .we have the Mafia, the Yakuza, the Cartel, the Yardies, the Triads, the Diablos, The Nines, The Jacks. . ."

"I feel like a kid in a candy store!" laughs Phil.

"Well let's divide it up. Phil? Who do you want?"

"Well we already have ties in the Mafia, so I'll take them for the easy job." says Phil the lazy bastard.

"I'll take the Yakuza. Who do you want, Gator?"

"Whatever. . ."

"You can have the Triads, how about that?"

"Whatever. . ."

"You still pissed about your car?"

"Cram it."

"Hey it wasn't my fault!"

"Whatever."

"You owned it for about four hours!"

"Could have been more if you didn't trash it."

"The guy who trashed it saved your life."

"What use is life without a flashy car?"

"Alright, that's enough, ladies!" bellows Phil. "We have a job to do."

"We sure do! Who's driving?"

"Well _I_ would drive if I had a car!"

"We're all going separate ways anyway." says Phil. "Jack a car, you might even get a nice one Gator."

"Whatever."

"Arm yourselves up, try and keep it small and _concealed_ though," says Phil as he eyes Gator with a rocket launcher.

"Aw man."

We each take a pistol or two. I place one in my jacket pocket and one in a holster in my trouser leg.

Phil swings open the massive double doors, letting the intense heat and sunlight pour in, filling every corner of the factory. The place really has a cheerier feel about it in the sunlight.

Out on the street, a long line of cars has conveniently stopped at a red light. The sun gleams off the paintwork, painting coloured spots in front of my eyes.

Phil pulls open a car door and throws a person out. "Hey Gator," he says, "you like a Cheetah?"

"Cheetah? It's mine!" I run up and knock Phil out of the way, then literally throw myself into the driver's seat. "Sorry Gator, you snooze you lose!"

Gator reluctantly settles for a bright blue Kuruma. At least it's sturdy and secure. It takes a powerful force to stop a Kuruma when you get it going, he knew. But still, it really _had_ been a nice Banshee. . .

Gator climbs into the passenger seat, much to the disgust of the driver. He lifts his hands up to Gator who, without batting an eyelid, shoots the man in the head and carelessly pushes the body out of the car.

Now the other cars run through the red light, many people uttering ear shattering screams, and running frantically. A police siren is heard.

"Time to go, I think."

"Yeah, let's get outta here."

"Later, Phil!"

Gator and I speed off seconds before the area is surrounded by police cars. The men, two to a car, exit their vehicles and look around. The streets are deserted other than a few shaken pedestrians, and Phil standing nonchalantly against a wall, admiring his reflection in his gun.

One man moves closer to him.

Phil looks up and smiles.

"M. . morning Phil." croaks the man, nervously.

"Hi." chimes Phil.

"Nothing suspicious going on here, eh?" he says sarcastically, but trying to sound as sincere as possible.

"Oh, the boys and me were having a little target practise inside, guess it got out of hand. . . sorry 'bout that."

"That's alright, Phil. We'll be going now."

"Bye, all."

Jackass, Phil thinks and snorts.

Phil waits until no one is around – all the police cars are gone, cars and pedestrians apparently avoiding this particular street at present.

It's safe.

Phil walks round to the side of the building, where a large doorway – almost invisible if you weren't to look for it – is sunk into the wall.

Phil presses the button on his set of keys, and the large square section of wall lifts upwards. Behind it, his one of a kind bullet proof, fire proof, bottle green Patriot sparkles with it's fresh, newly waxed paint job. Phil blows it a kiss, before climbing in and sinking back into the seat.

Showtime!

Phil had provided us with maps, indicating local gang territory with different shaded colours. The map is colourful, to say the least. I hadn't noticed much gang culture around, but the map showed it to be rampant.

The Yakuza own a large area on the map. I had driven down the street only once before. It was a dangerous place – people clambering out of casinos, some happy, some not so happy, suspicious looking street merchants and smart suited gangsters at every corner, often accompanied by nice cars.

There was my alternative motive for working with them – if I gained their trust, maybe they would "trust" me with one of their unique Yakuza Stingers. I had seem them driving around. A very fast, sporty car, not much different from a regular Stinger apart from the paint job – a dazzling mix of white and red, paying homage to the Japanese culture and flag. God, I want one.

Meanwhile, Gator drives his Kuruma slowly but _sturdily _around, clearly struggling to read the map.

He leans out his car window to a civilian. "Excuse me, can you tell me where Triad territory is?"

The man simply snorts and laughs mockingly. He walks off, carelessly pointing to a billboard with "Punk Noodles" written on it.

"Aha," says Gator, slightly embarrassed. He rolls up his window and follows the signposts to Punk Noodles.

Phil sits in his Patriot and looks at the map. After staring at it for a minute or two, he tosses it aside, and heads to the park, where he dominates the hills, smashing a few parked cars before retreating the scene, leaving behind a trail of surprised citizens and scrap metal.

That was fun. . .now what?

I pull up in front of Kenji's Casino (named in remembrance of the respected Yakuza man, murdered by the Cartel, with whom they have waged war ever since). The bright neon lights give off a warming glow, a pretty swirl of blues, reds, and greens. If you stare at it too long you need to blink to refocus your eyes. It looks less than welcoming – doors firmly closed, bouncers at either side surveying the street. This is where the "good" gamblers come. You have to have a certain degree of wealth upon entrance, otherwise you got kicked to the curb. Of course, once you got in there, they had no problem stripping you of your money, possessions, clothes, house etc. That's business for you. Official.

So how the hell was I meant to get in?

I step slowly towards the door. The bouncers immediately block the way, with barely any effort.

"Let me in."

"We don't let just _anyone_ in." says one of the men, clearly not of Japanese descent.

"Yeah," says the other one, "we only let a _special_ kind of customer in. How much ya got?"

"Well. . .I have this car." I point uncertainly at the Cheetah.

"Looks nice. Alright, get in. We'll watch your car. We don't want you to lose it, unless it's to us."

"That's so _nice_ of you guys." I say bitterly

"Shut up."

They push open the swing doors into a neon metropolis. Lights, blaring music, the constant chink of slot machines, someone calling out numbers, ruffling cards, yelling and cheering.

After walking down the entrance ramp, I am standing in the main games area, lined with video poker machines. A man pushes past me, clearly in a rush. Several black suited men are chasing him and shouting in Japanese. Now I notice the coins pouring from him onto the floor. Now's my chance. I take out my pistol, adjust my aim quickly and shoot the man in the foot, bringing him to the floor long enough for the men to catch him. Four or five bulky men surround the downed thief and lay into him with a flurry of punches. A much smaller, weedier man takes my arm and leads me away from the scene. He looks very official, more so than the bouncers, he probably runs the place.

He takes me into a small office and beckons for me to take a seat. I sit in the leather chair in the centre of the tiny room, and the man sits behind his desk, with his hands clasped on top.

He is bald and has a black goatee. The top of his finger has been cut off.

"Thank you for stopping that ruthless thug." he says, his thick Japanese accent coming through. He has quite a high pitched voice, but not particularly irritating.

"It was nothing." I say, obviously thinking the exact opposite.

"We would like very much to return the favour. Is there anything which you require?"

"I want to join you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I would like to work for you."

"I'm afraid it is not that simple. The Yakuza are about honour, discipline, respect, not mere brutal violence."

"So I am aware, and let me say, I have a lot of respect for you. I am only asking for a few jobs for a little pay."

"Very well, but we have an initiation test. Can you handle a sword?"

"I have no idea."

"The way of the Samurai teaches discipline and self control. Of course, nowadays we practice, but never resort to violence ourselves."

"That is what people like me are for, right?"

"Yes, _if_ you pass the test."

"What do I have to do?"

"You must prove yourself to me, with this."

He takes a long battle sword from its position on the wall behind him, and carefully hands it to me.

I slowly remove it from the case, letting the blade catch the reflection of the light and shine.

He takes his own sword from behind his desk, quickly removes it from the case and expertly spins it in his grip, before bringing the blade down carefully on his left hand, grinning over the top of it.

"Impressive."

"Shall we?" he leads me out onto the car park behind the casino. "No holding back, okay?" he says.

"What happens if I kill you?"

"That's not going to happen." he says confidently. "Begin."

Immediately after his words are uttered he lunges at me with the sword point outstretched. I roll to the side, feeling the edge of the blade tear my shirt. He turns, and lunges again. I hold the blade outstretched in anticipation of his attack, but instead he uses his sword to vault himself over my head, landing perfectly and pivoting exactly in time to clash swords with my swing. I wrestle him in this position for some time, our strength is very well matched. I apply more pressure against his blade, then switch directions and poke the sword forwards. Unfortunately he had been ready for this and cartwheels backwards, sword in hand. Seeing him temporarily vulnerable, I dash toward him, and with one full force swing, knock his sword from his hand, sending it flying several feet away, and at the same time, he falls to the ground. I point my sword at him and back him up against a car. I lift my sword for the final blow.

"Excellent. You have proved yourself."

I lift him to his feet cautiously, but he walks back into this office. I follow.

"Maybe there is a position for you here."

"Thank you." I bow, and walk out.

"Come back here tomorrow," he calls after me. "I might have some work for you by then."

Gator pulls up in front of Punk Noodles, a small sit-in restaurant occupied only by one or two people. The people at the tables wear bright blue jumpsuits embroidered with a fish motif. He walks up to one of them.

"Do you have any available jobs?" he says unenthusiastically.

"Yeah. Back at the factory, there's bound to be something you can do." says the man closest to Gator, between gulps of food.

"What factory?"

"The Belly Up fish factory down the street. Go talk with the boss."

"Thanks."

Gator leaves the place and notices his blue Kuruma is missing. He sighs, and walks to the factory.

The street is lined with bright banners stretching between the lamp posts. The buildings are old looking, and the decoration does nothing to perk them up.

Most of the people he passes look Asian. Other citizens tend to stay clear of gang territory, especially the Triads area. They seemed the most irrational and trigger happy. All the Triads walking the street are either wearing the blue jumpsuit, or bright white uniforms. Probably on break from the factory.

Gator approaches the heavy iron gates and they refuse to open for him. The black bars obscure his vision as he tries to peer inside and it is clearly impenetrable and unclimbable. A Triad fish van drives along the dirt path to the gates and they are opened. There was probably someone controlling them from inside, Gator reckoned.

He sticks close to the truck as it saunters inside, then makes his way for what looks like the front door.

When he is about half way across the sprawling, endless car park, a voice calls him. He looks around and spies the man by the van he had followed in. Gator walks over to the man.

"How the hell did you get in?" asks the Chinese man.

"Behind your truck. Can I speak with the boss? I'm looking for work."

"Sorry, you gotta be a worker to see the boss, and even then he has to summon you. But I tell ya what, finish my shift for me, and I'll put in a good word."

"That'd be great."

"What's you name?"

"Gator."

"Real name."

Gator sighs. "Blake Wilson."

The man sniggers under his breath. "I'll keep it in mind."

"So what do I do?"

"Basically you go to these places," he hands a long list to Gator, "and deliver to them."

"Deliver what?"

The man looks at Gator like he is stupid, and decides to choose that moment to walk away.

Gator gets in the van where the keys are waiting. He starts the car, and pulls out of the car park.

"Feel like a freakin' sardine." he grumbles. "Smell like one too. . . stupid van."

Gator drives around the district of Chinatown supplying the good people with fish in exchange for money. He gets a couple of odd glances, probably because he is not Chinese, and a few people try to shoot him, but fail.

Later in the day, around six o'clock, Gator is on his last delivery. He hears a ringing, like a cell phone, and looks around for the source, He notices the telephone incorporated in to the van, and lifts the receiver.

"Hello?"

"SOS! SOS! Major gang war going down with the Diablos at Punk Noodles. There's only a couple of them so far – they already have us cut down – and now they're sending for back up! Get over here!"

"But I'm not a -"

"I don't care! Get the fuck over here and help!"

"Okay. . ."

Gator turns the vehicle around and retraces his steps back to Punk Noodles. He stops at the end of the street, hearing the gunfire. A few figures can be made out in the street wearing blue combat trousers and black jackets, probably the Diablos. Gator checks for his gun, loads it, replaces it in his pocket and drives.

He drives the massive bulk of his fish van down the street, barreling into several Diablo gangsters, some rolling over the bonnet, some getting crushed under it, all of them dying. He stops briefly, feeling bullets penetrate the side of the truck. A man limps over to him, bleeding severely from his chest.

"There is a. . .back entrance to. . .Punk Noodles in that. . alleyway." he croaks. "Use it."

The man collapses forwards onto the side of the truck. Gator drives forward for the alleyway, leaving the man to fall, already dead, onto the cold, hard ground, trailing blood.

The alleyway, when Gator finds it, is clearly too thin for the truck to go down, so he parks the van across the entrance to the alley and gets out the passenger door, creating the perfect blockade.

There are gunshots ahead, and bullet indentations in the walls. He loads his pistol in preparation, and walks around the corner, staying as close as possible to the wall.

He peers around the corner to see four Diablo gangsters, armed with pistols, shooting wildly into the restaurant. Gator flinches as one man looks in his direction and hides behind the wall. He looks around and spots a crude stairway to the adjacent building and runs up it, throwing himself behind the two foot high ledge, out of sight from the enemy below.

He army crawls along the rooftop until the back entrance to Punk Noodles is in front of him, with its doors open and a trail of blood beckoning him to enter. The problem – the four gangsters.

They all have their backs turned to him, but one wrong move and they would all be on him. He would have to be quick. He loads the clip in his second pistol – now he has two firearms.

He walks backwards, and runs for the edge of the roof. He places his right foot on the ledge and launches over, shooting wildly with both guns, hearing the steady rattle of the shells hitting the concrete, some splattered in blood. As he lands, he rolls behind one of the men, grabbing him with his left arm (his weak hand) and blasting the other gangsters with his right. The men retaliate by returning fire, but the bullets pierce Gator's human shield instead as he advances towards the men, continually firing.

One by one they fall. Gator lets his shield fall to the ground when the other men are dead, and shoots him in the head to be safe.

He hears the sound of guns hitting metal and runs back around the corner to see the Diablos trying to get past his van, but to no avail.

He grins, and walks back to the entrance of the restaurant. The scene inside is like a horror movie. Triads are lying in pools of their own blood, slumped over tables, or drowned in their meals. It is quite a change from the scene earlier in the day. The carefree people enjoying a meal were replaced by brutally mutilated corpses.

He hears screaming from the kitchen, and leaps the counter, knocking the door from its hinges.

Inside, the chef sits on his knees surrounded by a ring of fire, praying.

Gator runs to him and hears hysterical laughter from behind him. Standing where the door had been is a Diablo with a glass bottle in his hand. He tosses it inside, and flees.

The bottle explodes on impact with the floor and more fire spreads. The chef panics – the flames around him are closing in. Luckily, the fire extinguisher is nearby. Shielding himself from the spitting fire, Gator reaches for it.

He sprays the gas on the fire, he and the chef covering their mouths from the fumes.

After saving the chef, Gator gets rid of the fire covering the exit and hides behind an upturned table. The man follows. From his position, Gator eliminates every Diablo who enters with barely any effort. He looks around him, no Triads are nearby, he is alone.

Another wave enters, Gator leaps up and showers them with bullets from his twin pistols. Afterwards, he reaches into his pocket for new clips, and loads them into his guns, before returning to his sanctuary behind the table to wait for more attackers.

His concentration is broken by the chef tugging his sleeve and shouting something in Chinese. Gator doesn't understand him, but does become worried – the man is panicking.

He hears a gunshot, and the chef screams, before collapsing. Gator notices the bullet lodged in his head. Gator leaps over to the other side of the table to see a dozen or more Diablo gangsters entering from the back door. The must have destroyed his blockade!

The man at the front motions to the others to wait, and walks confidently up to Gator. He produces his Desert Eagle, and points it at Gator's head.

Gator stares up into the gun, visibly trembling.

A shot rings out, and the man drops his gun. Gator grabs it, and looks behind him. Outside are half a dozen Fish vans. Inside, over a score of Triads.

"About time you guys showed up!" yells Gator.

Gator shoots the man with the Desert Eagle and the bullet soars right through him. The Triads take base behind the trashed tables and unleash a thunderous wave of bullets until the Diablos retreat. Gator turns to see several Diablo Stallions fleeing the scene.

"Nice work." says one of the Triads, who Gator recognizes as the man who had given him the job. "A major Triad leader is flying in from San Andreas tomorrow, I think he might like to meet you."

"Great!" says Gator.

"Now get outta here, we'll deal with the police."

"Alright. Thanks."

Gator leaves via the back door where his van lies, burned and blackened, surrounded by Diablo bodies. Around the corner, he sees a Diablo Stallion – a great muscle car, black with a flame vinyl.

"Hey. Nice car."

Gator hot wires it using his mechanic skills and hops in, before driving back to Ammunation.

I meet Gator at the door after getting back from the casino. He points smugly at his new ride, grinning from ear to ear. I step to the side and reveal the Yakuza Stinger and he decides to shut up.

We walk inside to see Phil sitting at the large conference table cleaning his gun.

"So how did it go with the Mafia, Phil?"

Phil sits silently for a moment. "_That's_ what I was meant to do today!"

Gator groans.

"Don't worry, don't worry, I'll do it tomorrow." says Phil. "Anyway, how did your day go?"

"I got in a sword fight with the head of the Yakuza."

Gator pipes up now. "Well, first I got stuck delivering packages but then I went to this huuuuge gang war where all these Diablos were fighting and I had to sneak in the back and I was all like "powpowpowpowpow" coz they were all over the place and I had to get in. And then -"

"A sword fight? How _cool_ is that! Tell me about it!"

"Well, the guy said I had to prove myself, so I'm thinking I have to do some job like a hit or something, but he pulls down this huge battle sword and I'm like "woah".

Gator clears his throat. "And the kitchen was all on fire and I had to save the chef and -"

"Gator, shut up, I'm trying to listen to the story!" yells Phil.

Gator trudges off muttering, "Never listens to me, doesn't care, shoulda killed you when I had the chance. . ."

Phil watches Gator walk off, feeling a bit guilty. He watches until Gator is out of sight. "Then what happened?"

"He said go back tomorrow for some work."

"Well alright! I'll go meet with Toni tomorrow too."

"I think Gator is going back. Something about an award for bravery or something. . ."

"_Yeah, _he wishes."


	14. Blood Reveals Your True Colours

The sound of birds chirping outside the window awakens Phil from his slumber. He checks his surroundings and finds himself lying on the huge table in his beloved factory. Yawning, he shuffles his way to the edge of the table, eases himself downwards until his feet touch the floor, casually grabs his shotgun and carries it to the window. He opens the window and the cold air stings his face. It had been a miserable night. The ground is still soaked from the rain and the front is now littered with debris. Phil, still a little dazed, leans the gun out of the window, and takes a few pot shots at the source of the annoying chirping. The birds flutter off in panic, bringing a satisfied grin onto Phil's face.

After salvaging breakfast from discarded pizza boxes and eating it in silence, it comes to his attention that no one else is in the building. He takes his plates to the sink, and casually drops them out the window above it, saving more work on clean up. He walks into the lounge area and slumps down on the couch, locates the remote under the collection of rubbish on his left and tosses it expertly to his right hand, which he uses to turn on the TV.

He stares fixedly at the screen, which he now notices has been obscured by a large piece of paper taped to it. He grunts angrily and pulls himself off of the couch to remove it. As he scrunches it into a tight little ball, he notices his name printed on top. He unfolds it and reads.

He learns from the note the whereabouts of his teammates. They had both left early that morning (it was now approaching two in the afternoon) to attend meetings with their new bosses. Phil shrugs, scrunches up the note, and falls back onto the couch. He starts watching the reruns of the hit show "Just the Five of Us". It used to be popular in the nineties, until someone found out most of the main characters were homosexuals. It was all over the tabloids, hard hitting articles were published in newspapers across America, inevitably sinking the show's five years at the top.

The phone rings, noticeably louder than the television, and showing no incentive to stop, Phil surrenders, and answers it with a gruff "What?"

"Is this. . . Phil Cassidy?" comes the reply.

"Who wants to know?" demands Phil.

"I am speaking on behalf of Don Cipriani. He wishes to meet you."

"Keep talking."

"He has requested you meet him in warehouse eleven, down by the docks. I believe he has a proposition for you."

"What time?"

"As soon as possible, as per his request."

"Fine, but I hope he knows he's interrupting everything I had planned for today."

"I'll let him know." the caller replies sarcastically.

Disgruntled, Phil switches off the television and grabs his coat before leaving the factory, letting the door slam loudly behind him.

Earlier that morning, in Kenji's casino, I sit with the owner in his plush office. Like a true businessman, he gets down to business immediately.

"A major Triad figure will be entering the country via boat later today. It will be your job to kill him. With this." He hands me a sniper rifle. "There will be plenty of places you can use for a vantage point, but you must not be seen. There will be thousands attending the ceremony being held to welcome him. I believe he is presenting an award to a courageous young man. If possible, kill him also."

It takes me a moment to take everything in. "Kill Gator?" I blurt out loud.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, sorry, nothing. I better go." He nods, and shows me to the door.

Outside, I walk rigidly to my car, and slowly pull open the door, still in shock. I maneuver myself into the front seat and place my hands on the wheel. I stay in this position for several minutes, contemplating the events that would occur later in the afternoon. I would have to kill a leading Triad, a respected, distinguished figurehead for the Asian community, right in front of thousands of his loyal supporters. And if that wasn't bad enough, I would have to kill my best friend, the only person I can devote all my trust to, the only person I can let my guard down around, and I would be the one to kill him. It is a lot to think about. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my boss watching me with concern. He stands at the entrance accompanied by two other sharply dressed men, guns in hand. He makes some sort of gesture, but I don't pay particular attention. Instead, I steadily turn the keys in the ignition, and drive away.

I check my watch, the time is approaching eleven thirty. The ship would not arrive at the docks until nearer three o'clock. I continue to drive around aimlessly, barely reaching a speed of thirty miles an hour. Those words he had uttered had put me on autopilot. I am barely conscious of my actions. The roads are slippery from the heavy rainfall the night before, broken barriers lead to dangerous plummets below, where several careless drivers have already ended up. The roads now are deserted. Excluding myself, the only other car in sight is a black Washington behind me, the driver keeping close to me. It is probably safer that way.

I check my watch again, ten minutes later. The Washington is still behind me. I drive over the bridge, and pull in to a diner at the first exit. I park in the space closest to the restaurant, and, after ordering some food – tomato soup and a cup of coffee – I take the seat closest to the window. I notice the black Washington cruise along the road outside, and continue driving round the corner. Relieved, I take my time with my meal, gazing hopelessly out of the window at the sun poking through the clouds, shimmering on the ocean not too far away.

One plate of soup and three or so cups of coffee later, I have a third glance at my watch. Noticing the time to be just after two o'clock, I decide to head down to the port to get a good vantage point before too many people show up. I stroll back to my car, unlock it, climb into the seat and nonchalantly make sure the rifle is under the passenger side seat, where I had left it. It is still there.

I drive along the ocean front, marveling at the view. Despite it having been a terrible night the night before, things are shaping up nicely today. The sun is showing itself, reflecting brightly off the deep blue sea, almost blindingly. The clouds are disintegrating, with only a few wisps left over and the wind is virtually gone, with only a gentle swaying of the trees indicating its presence.

As I drive towards my destination, a car catches my eye. Turning out of a side street a few yards behind me is the black Washington, the occupants hidden behind black tinted windows. Ever so casually, it slips into the traffic behind me, and continues on my trail. I try not to dwell on this disconcerting fact, as more taxing situations will occur soon, but the prospect that these pursuers may witness my crime is difficult to contend with. The time now approaching two fifteen, there is little I can do about them. I simply continue to the docks.

When I arrive, a few dozen people attend to decorating the area for the arrival of the guest. These people, luckily, are so consumed in their tasks, they won't notice me preparing for mine. The banners and podium and lights suggest where the show itself will take place, giving me a fairly clear idea for a vantage point. A small, abandoned looking shack thirty or so metres from the podium looks perfect, so I take the gun, slide it under my coat, and exit my Yakuza Stinger, leaving it parked at the complete opposite side from the display, where no one will suspect trouble. I walk the distance across the docks, through the mess of trailers and cargo, constantly wary of onlookers, and more so, the Washington that had followed me down and now seems to have disappeared. I climb the rickety stairs to the shack and stare contentedly out of the space where a glass window should have been. I remove my coat, revealing a black, short sleeved shirt underneath, and a sniper rifle tucked under my arm. I stretch the barrel out of the gaping hole and peer through the scope. I let the laser pointer hover over the podium for a second, as if lining up a shot. Satisfied, I retract the gun and wait.

Earlier that day, Gator passes by Kenji's casino, eyeing the Yakuza Stinger parked outside with contempt. The engine purrs as he shifts gears, speeding along the wide roads at seventy miles an hour at least. Despite the heavy rainfall, he takes the corners well in his new car – a lipstick red convertible Super GT (he left his Diablo Stallion at his apartment, though he slept most nights in the factory due to heavy work loads) which he had "acquired" from another early bird unfortunately caught at a red light when Gator came to pass.

He drives past the borders of Yakuza territory, into China Town, festively decorated for the arrival of their leader. The people had gone to an extra special effort in preparing, as is evident when Gator arrives. A parade float saunters past, almost crashing into him.

The way Gator drives, his speed dropping to a snail's pace, suggests he has absolutely no idea where he is going, until a young Chinese man waves him to a basement garage. Gator nods to the boy, and wheels his car in.

The room is big and hollow, furnished only by a dozen chairs in the middle. The only source of light is an almost insignificant skylight, the searing white light spotlighting the chairs. Sitting in the chairs are a dozen men, dressed casually in well worn jogging suits and oil stained mechanic overalls. The air emitting from the circle is dense with smoke, the air emitting from the men is one that suggests they should not be taken lightly. One of the men grunts in Gator's general direction, without actually looking at him, and kicks a chair towards him for him to sit down. Gator is slightly taken aback by the lack of courtesy he receives, until one of the men begins talking to the group in Chinese, demonstrating actions, his hands taking the form of a gun occasionally. They all turn to face Gator. The inconsiderate man nods to him and smiles, keeping his teeth clenched on his cigar menacingly. He stands up and paces towards Gator, towering over him as he gets closer. He outstretches his hand in front of him. Gator shakes it nervously. The man laughs heartily and mutters something in Chinese, in his deep, gruff voice. This causes an outburst of laughter amongst the men, and they call for Gator to sit down. He takes a chair next to the man who had greeted him moments ago, ever aware of his presence as a novelty, like a new toy to show off to the friends. A man in a black tank top and woolly hat offers him a cigar. He politely refuses.

"Gentlemen," says the man who had greeted Gator. He has a thick accent, but speaks perfect English. The way he keeps eyeing Gator implies that Gator should be pleased - the man is only speaking English for his benefit. "Gentlemen," he says again, rising from his chair and strolling around the inside of the circle, "today, will be a _glorious _day." The men in the room cheer and whistle, stamping their feet wildly. The man gestures for them to be quiet, calmly, motioning with his hands, his voice level. "Please," he insists with forced rationality. His attempt proves futile as the men continue to talk loudly amongst themselves, Gator nervously gawking at them, with no clue as to what they may be saying. The speaker seems agitated now, fidgeting with his hands and drawing his right arm inside his jacket. He reveals his pistol, the shiny metal gleaming in Gator's eyes, without drawing the attention of the other men. Casually, he points the barrel upwards, and pulls the trigger.

The outburst clears the air of the room. All noise ceases as the Triads, drained of colour, turn their attention back to the speaker.

"_Thank you."_ he mouths fiercely. "As I was saying," his tone becomes more insistent, "we have a very important job to do today to aid the welcome of our special visitor." Noticing the complexion the others hold he adds hastily, "the next one to say _anything_ is getting shot. Got it?" The men nod nervously, Gator appears to be physically trembling. "Our leader, " he starts again, "will be honouring our city with a personal visit later this afternoon. He will be arriving by boat at the city docks, and has specially requested that we attend as protection. We shall guard the area around where the boat will be anchored, outside, for his speech and presentation to the brave young man who risked his life for us, out of free will, not even an official member of our society. Please take a bow, Gator." Gator nervously stands up and bows forward in the deathly silence, the onlookers unsure whether they are allowed to cheer for him, or say anything for that matter. "After his speech," the man continues, "he and his specially selected guests, the heads of the various Triad street gangs, and of course Gator here – the guest of honour – will retreat inside the vessel for a private gathering, with drinks and such likes. If all goes to plan, we will also be invited. We are very, very lucky people, especially because our job will be made all the easier by a group stationed at the main docks entrance, around eight hundred yards from the event itself, ready and willing to stop any uninvited trouble before it even gets near. The time is now one o'clock, and the ceremony will commence at three. Meet back here at two o'clock to leave for the harbour. You are dismissed until then."

Carefully, the men, one by one, leave their chairs and make for the door. Gator finds himself the only one remaining, excluding the speaker.

"Gator, you can go now. Why don't you go get something to eat?" suggests the man as he collapses into a chair, dabbing his forehead with a rag.

"Where?"

"Stop by Punk Noodles. The shop itself isn't too far from here and it's still in pretty good shape after the shootout."

"Okay."

"Just be back here at two, with a vehicle you can travel in."

"Okay." repeats Gator as he walks to his red Super GT, vaulting over the still closed door and thrusting the keys into the ignition. He leans his left arm casually on the top of the door frame and slowly drives out, going right at the end of the street. Around the corner, shop owners attach welcoming banners on their shop fronts and offer special prices to celebrate the coming of the great man. Gator passes a pawn shop, a small, not very significant Ammunation franchise, some innocent looking retailers, probably fronting sinister operations taking place round the back, and pulls up outside Punk Noodles. The windows are boarded with ugly wooden sheets, bullet holes dot the walls and blood stains are slightly visible on the floor, despite an obvious effort to clean them. Noticing Gator's arrival, the chef who's life Gator had saved immediately comes to greet him.

"Welcome, my hero!" he exclaims, politely leading Gator to a table. "I'll fix you something up, anything you want, no charge."

"Wow, thanks," says a surprised Gator.

Ten minutes later, the chef returns with a steaming stir fry dish. Gator looks up from the paper he had been reading, an article about the Triad leader coming to the city, and places it to the side so the chef can put the bowl on the red lace tablecloth. Gator eats his meal, while still trying to finish the article, scalding himself several times in the process, then gives up. He finishes his meal, then the article, talking of the private party inside the boat that only the biggest players in town would be attending. He holds a sense of pride that he will be among them.

He then wipes his mouth with his napkin and heads for the exit, complimenting the chef on an excellent meal and thanking him for his hospitality. He exchanges some conversation with the man, concerning the party and his award, the chef explaining his disappointment on not being able to attend, his restaurant unfortunately his top priority.

Gator sympathizes with the man, then leaves the restaurant, arriving at the basement garage little after a quarter to two. One by one, the other men also appear, around one in five of them slowly reverse laundry and fish vans in. After a quick pep talk, the enthusiastic, patriotic Triads pile into the vans, each van holding around five people, with two in the front. The group leader checks each man to ensure he is equipped, then lowers the shutters on each van, before retrieving his sea blue Infernus from a previously locked garage. Gator lets out and impressed whistle.

"You follow me, okay Gator? You don't need to travel behind these guys." He grins in Gator's direction, and enters his vehicle. Gator, who hadn't left his, follows the man out of the basement ahead of the other vans, and onto the street, heading south, to the port.

Some boats can be seen on the ocean from Gator's window as he drives behind the rather reckless Triad gangster leading him. He has little time to admire the view, always swerving through traffic and running red lights. Finally, with one powerful powerslide, they enter the sprawling mass of tarmac that leads to the docks, painting a black arc on the paving. The lead car, followed by Gator, followed a minute later by the army of fish vans slow to a trundle to be checked by the Triads already in place to guard the gate. A dozen burly Triads draw Gator daggers, until the man in the Infernus indicates he is with them. With a quick check of the car, and a check of all the vans and their occupants, the Triad patrol guards grant them access, and they trundle in, a slight glance at the Stinger parked behind some 18-wheelers.

From up in my hiding spot, I watch the convoy pour in, the Triads taking their positions around the stage and podium, Gator taking a seat on the pier, presumably where the boat would harbour, and the other Chinese man sitting next to him, playing with is Uzi. The Triads by the gate had set up shortly after I had arrived, and were just visible as little black, shadowed specks. The idiots had been guarding the gate ever since, but hadn't even bothered to check the area beforehand. For all they know a million potential assassins could already be inside, myself one of them. The time was quarter to three, it would soon be time for me to make one of the toughest decisions of my life.

The sniper rifle contains only four bullets. They must really trust my skills. . . Four bullets for two targets doesn't sound hard, but if I miss then everything blows up in my face. Do I really have to kill Gator? Do I even really have to kill this Triad guy? Well, yes, otherwise the Yakuza will kill _me_. Still, I don't know if I can do it.

The yacht is visible on the shore line now, a small, but perfectly formed black silhouette, ever so slowly growing in size as it sails the currently tranquil waters to the docks.

Minutes later, the vast expanse of the yacht briefly obscures the sun. A large group, at least a thousand people, stand in anticipation as the ship is anchored, behind the pier, behind the podium. That's a thousand witnesses, a thousand people willing to defend their leader to the death, a thousand people, who's watchful eyes could result in my capture, should I be too careless.

The ship has stopped now, a thousand people hold their breath as the door opens and two men, both in identical black suits, pearl white shirts, black ties, black shoes, _black hearts_, step through the door frame. The only difference between them, in fact is one has short, black hair, the other is slightly balding. That, and the black haired one also sports a pair of opaque sunglasses.

The man in shades, clearly of higher status than the balding one, walks unsteadily to the podium, in the arm of the lesser man. The crowd cheer wildly. He taps the microphone carefully, a slight ringing occurs, throwing the crowd into perfect silence. As he prepares to recite his speech, I prepare the rifle, with the barrel resting lightly on the windowsill, peering through the scope at the speaker's face. Instantly I recognize him. He's a celebrity over in San Andreas, casino owner, made some powerful friends, crushed some powerful enemies, and recently word was released that he is blind, and people became even more impressed with his achievements. I couldn't kill someone like the great Wu Zi Mu, could I?

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Wu Zi Mu begins to the awe stricken crowd as they stare up at him like some godly figure, "there could be no better time for us than the present. Our empires are thriving in San Andreas and Liberty City in legitimate and _less well known_ areas we are involved in, and I couldn't be more proud to be a Triad, as should you be. . ." I hear him speak, hanging on almost nothing he says, his voice traveling into my head, and leaving just as quickly. I rest back under the sill. I would wait until Gator stood to receive his award, then, _kill them both_. No matter how hard it could be. Slowly, I let myself fall onto my back and stare at the thinning wooden roof, as the monotonous voice of Wu Zi Mu drones on in the back of my mind.

A minute later, Phil, his car - a greenish Sentinel (he wasn't willing to risk his Patriot) - surrounding him, arrives at the main entrance and spies the guards. Looking them up and down, it appears obvious that he could take them, probably without leaving his car if he felt that way inclined. They look Chinese, definitely not part of Cipriani's regime, and things might be better off if he stays on their good side for the time being. He continues driving, past the expansive parking area currently under guard, round to his left, to the rear side of the docks, the main storage area. With cruel intentions, he mows down a fence that had been obstructing his path, and parks his car. On his right – a string of warehouses, number one closest to him. There seems to be a lot of commotion further up, a big crowd of people gathered, loud even from where he stands. Of course, they don't concern him, and they are not concerned with him, all paying all their attention to Wu Zi Mu, especially me.

Phil counts the warehouses as he strolls past them, keeping a mental note of which is which. After a fairly long walk, he arrives at the meeting place – a large, wooden, single floored building, covered in grime and moss, a black "11" painted on the huge doors long ago, now only barely legible.

I lean the gun out of the window, moving the cross hair around for the view – a beautiful shore line, an enormous collection of boats lining the pier, from speedboats to dinghies. Further right, a row of Triads standing to attention, Gator sitting in a seat on the pier looking bored, the soon to be executed Triad leader rabbiting on about something with the boat behind him. Slightly further right are the warehouses, up to eleven, perhaps where I could hide if I miss. I ready the gun, still inexperienced with sniper rifles, shut my eyes, the sound of Wu Zi Mu leading me to the target.

Now inches from the door, it is at least twice Phil's height, the rest of the building double this still. Carefully, he presses his right hand, and left elbow against one of the doors, and forces it open. He takes a few steps inside, his footsteps echoing, indicating the hollowness of the room. The door closes shut behind him by itself, extinguishing the main source of light in the room.

High up the walls, a row of windows, mostly broken, all but one or two covered with wooden sheets to prevent glass from falling, let little light in, not enough to allow Phil to see anything in the room. He stands for a few seconds, debating whether to leave, when he feels someone's hands on him. It is a firm, tough grip, patting his pockets and under his shirt, searching for weapons. Phil feels the absence of weight around his abdomen – the person must have taken his Desert Eagle. Phil checks his waist – his gun is definitely missing. The mystery searcher gives him a harsh shove forwards, and Phil continues, unsure, feeling his way around, his fingers touching a cold metal table. He feels around some more for a chair, and lays his hands on what he thinks is one.

"Take a seat." A voice says, pleasantly, but very insistently.

Phil lowers himself until he is on the seat, his nerves causing his brow to sweat.

"Hey Phil."

"Who's there?" questions Phil.

"It's me, Toni! And Luigi is here too, you met him at the door." laughs the Don.

Phil hears a scraping noise as Luigi pulls up a chair and sits across from him, next to Don Cipriani.

"Uh, can we maybe put some lights on?" asks Phil.

"Why? It's a gorgeous day!"

"But I can't see a thing!"

"You don't have to. I will try to make this brief, unless you would like a little, friendly chat? I hear your business is doing well."

Phil spits ahead of him. "Just tell me what you want."

"What do I want?" he laughs. "Now there's a question. Hmm. . . I can tell you what I don't want. . ." He strokes his shotgun in his lap, and mutters to Luigi to go for the lights. "What I don't want, _Mr Cassidy_, is to be in someone's debt. I hate debt, I hate the feeling that at any time I could be called upon to do someone a favour, _"because I owe them"_."

"What do you want from me?" Phil demands.

"Well, you see, _Phil_, you recently spared my life, a service I am very grateful for, one which I am not sure if I can ever repay. I am in your debt, you see. So, Mr Cassidy, I'll tell you what I want." He stands up, and leans across the table. "I want you dead."

Luigi clicks the lights and Phil sees the barrel of the shotgun between his eyes. His eyes move up the barrel, meeting the stare of Don Cipriani.

"Fuck."

Toni smirks.

"Why don't you just get it fucking over with?" screams Phil, screwing his face up awaiting the shock.

Toni laughs quietly again. "I'm just savouring the moment." He fakes a sigh. "But if that's what you want. . ." his left index finger moves over the trigger, the barrel rests in his right hand.

A faint click.

A loud smash.

One of the only surviving windows explodes, raining glass, the bullet screams through Luigi's head, carrying remnants of blood and brains into the adjacent wall. He dies instantly, he doesn't even have time to cry out.

Toni rolls his eyes upwards to the front of the room in surprise, turning them almost immediately back to Phil, in time to watch the butt of his gun collide with his face, throwing him backwards, blood squirting from his nose and head - minus a shotgun.

Phil watches him tumble to the ground, roll, and wearily stagger back to his feet. Toni falters around, the expansive room swirling around him. Phil squeezes the trigger of the shotgun violently, the shell piercing Toni's abdomen, knocking him backwards. He keeps his balance, swaying forward to catch the second shot; third; fourth; fifth; his body convulsing violently with each strike; his mouth dripping blood, his stomach and chest dripping blood, he collapses over his weakened legs, and hits the floor.

Phil, breathing heavily, his hair and shirt soaked with sweat, grimaces at the lifeless body, drops the empty gun by his feet, and remains motionless, his gaze affixed at the shadows engulfing the back of the room. His mind races, replaying what just happened, what he just did, ultimately failing to make sense of anything. Images and scenarios dance in his head, painting horrific images for his eyes, a horror movie in his own brain.

A blur swoops past his eyes – a movement in the shadows at the back of the room. He changes his poise, resting his weight on the balls of his feet, watching the darkness beyond him. The shadow rises upwards, the light now revealing it as a wave of suited, gun wielding gangsters. In one motion, they turn their attention to him, and raise their guns. The light shows the menace in their faces – the menace of men honour bound to perform their boss's duty, alive or dead – a group of mindless, violent men, who know no better than to blindly follow orders of someone with the guts to command them.

Phil didn't feel like reeducating them.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the guns aimed at him, he touches the metal table, and grips the edge, without saying a word, without blinking, without _breathing_. The barrels of the guns don't frighten him half as much as his icy stare intimidates them. The army of gangsters, courageous in their number, reach the same conclusion. A dozen guns spark, metal pellets shooting out of them with blinding speed. Phil flips the table with his right hand, his left hand breaking his fall as he throws himself to shelter behind it.

Hundreds of metallic _pings_ ring out, Phil covers his ears to block out the sound. Around him – a metal table, body of deceased Mafia Don, dud shotgun. Several metres in front – an army of shooters. Several feet to the side – Luigi's headless corpse, Phil's Desert Eagle inches from his hand, a roof high shelf of wooden crates. Bullets impact the table barricade like raindrops, a few flying wide, whizzing past him into the wall. A blessing, a chance – silence as a dozen guns simultaneously reload. Phil makes his break for his gun, by Luigi's body, crushing himself up against the wall, hidden behind the crates, averting his gaze from the ugly sight at his feet, his shoes caked in Luigi's blood.

Luigi never had a chance to empty the clip, Phil still had a couple in his pocket anyway. The muscle men saw him move, temporarily stopped reloading to move after him. Phil peers through a gap in the shelf to see a dozen muscle bound thugs making their way towards him. He pockets the gun – both hands would be necessary. He places them on the side of the blue, metal shelf and forces it over. After getting the first side off the floor, the whole structure tips over, raining heavy wooden boxes on the unsuspecting suits below.

Phil notices the light pouring in around his ankles, the enormous warehouse door opening. He spies the gap, partially filled by a burly Chinese man. He looks upon the dazed gangsters, and to Phil standing idly by the collapsed shelf.

"Uh. . .boss says to get you guys to be quiet." he says, trying to remember the message. "I guess that means I gotta kill you." He takes dual pistols in his hands aims at Phil. "Sorry buddy. Woozie's orders. He's such a dickhead lately. I dunno. . ." The man looks back up from the floor where he had been avoiding Phil's gaze. Phil is nowhere to be seen, the other gangsters stagger to their feet and turn. The Chinese man dives behind a crate firing wildly, the henchmen returning fire unsteadily at him. Meanwhile Phil watches the onslaught from behind some raised scaffolding, no chance of making the escape.

Stalemate.

Meanwhile, I remain at my post, having just made the unsuccessful shot, hands trembling, the crowd flustered, Woozie, Gator and the Triads exchanging shocked glances below. Movement on the ladder behind me. I grab the gun – it's heavy – and swing it round in front of the face of the Yakuza casino owner. Mildly relieved, I let the gun drop.

"Sorry, sir."

"What the hell was that?" he yells, _calmly_. "You missed on purpose."

"I didn-"

"You did. You a Triad gangster in disguise, huh? Well, you may have proved your strength worthy of my time but not your honour!"

"But-"

"Silence. I wrongly trusted you."

"Well you couldn't have trusted me that much if you followed me down here!"

"Of course not! I don't trust just anyone!And I certainly no longer trust you. I have to leave, this is a dangerous place for me, but I will leave you in the company of a few of my _trustworthy_ men. Good day. We shall _never_ meet again."

He straightens his tie, wipes the sweat from his face, turns, and lowers down the ladder. I watch the steady steps as his head disappears, and almost as soon as it is out of view, the face of one of the Yakuza casino bouncers takes its place. Another follows, and another. Now three of them up the ladder, they stand in a line. They are grinning, motionless, like bouncers should be, across the exit, _grinning._ Their guns remain holstered, they remain at attention, _grinning_.

Outside stand Woozie, alerted by the shot, joined closely by his assistant, and Gator, the day's hero.

"Over there, sir!" yells Su Xi, pointing to the open window, where a number of shadowed figures can be seen.

"I can't see them, idiot." Woozie replies. "Send some men up to sort them out."

"Sir, you should retreat inside the boat."

"I can't abandon my fans!" says Woozie, waving his hands in front of the podium to where the crowd had been standing before the first shot was fired. Su Xi didn't want to risk telling him they were gone.

"Very well." Su Xi motions to four strong, unarmed Triad guys (whom Gator had spent some time with previously) and they immediately get up, and make their way to the bottom of the tower.

I stand at the top, as motionless as the guards, eyeing the exit, the furniture, the potential hiding places – tables, chairs, termite infested wardrobe.

Open window, _grinning bodyguards. _A head coming up the ladder, two arms with enormous muscles, a Triad. The bouncers turn, grab their guns from their belts. I make a break for the table, hurdling over it and behind it as three more Triads scale the ladder. The last one, barely up the ladder, reaches out, takes hold of one bouncer's gun, twists him arm until he drops it, wincing in pain, down below. The scream causes another Japanese man to turn toward the ladder to check his injured comrade, giving me the opportunity to vault over the table and onto his shoulders, wrestle the gun from his hands, suitably beat him with it, toss it out the open window, and slide to the floor, still connected to the man's neck, before returning to safety behind the table. One armed man remains.

Woozie to a young Triad with glasses and a rocket launcher: "Well, this is taking far too long. I would have thought they would be down by now. I've had enough. Fire the rocket, pipsqueak."

The young man struggles to position the heavy artillery upright.

"But sir!" yells Gator, "your men are up there!"

"Like I care."

"That's not very patriotic. These people look up to you. And you want to kill them?"

"Yes, dammit! Look, Gator, I would deposit all my trust into an impressionable young man like you, rather than a hundred mindless goons. These guys are replaceable. Someone like you is not."

"Fine then, sir." says Gator with pride, before turning and sprinting to the shack, ignoring whatever Woozie calls after him.

One armed man remains.

But not for long, as a well placed kick to the gut from a steel capped Triad's shoe sends it out his hand and along the floor. A Yakuza man and Triad gangster lunge for it as it slides along the wooden floor, flailing with their arms to be the first to pick it up. The gun soars across the floor, hands trailing inches behind, until a foot comes down heavily on top of it, just missing trailing fingers. The men follow upwards, past the leg, the sweat soaked white shirt and loose tie, to the stern yet triumphant face, the shoe's owner.

"What's up guys? Am I the only one armed?" sniggers Gator as he lifts the gun slowly off of the ground, finger on trigger, trigger on gangsters. "Well then, if ya'll wouldn't mind keeping perfectly still for a moment while I get my friend." Some muffled voices arise when the past acquaintance of Gator and myself – a hero Triad and a Yakuza lackey – is brought to attention.

I crawl out from behind the table, uneasily avoiding the stares of the other men.

"_What the hell are you doing here?_" I whisper under my breath.

"_Look that cold hearted bastard Woozie was gonna blow this shit-hole up with these guys inside. But he won't do it if I'm here. What the hell are you doing here?"_

"_Trying to assassinate that "cold hearted bastard". And you!"_

"_Me?"_

"_Orders from some Yakuza jerkoff. I missed the shot on purpose, now we're gonna die."_

"_Not if I got the gun. These guys won't bother us, and Woozie ain't gonna do shit with me in the shack."_

"_Don't be so sure."_

We lean out the window to see Woozie himself loading the rocket.

"I don't care how heroic he is, no one disobeys me!" he yells, firing in the general direction of the tower."

"Oh god! Get the fuck out!" Gator screams sliding down the ladder backwards.

"FUCK!" I see the back wall buckle, the already unsteady structure giving way. I lunge at the wall, knocking it from the supports, escaping as the roof collapses in, falling backwards down the drop, watching wood, fire, limbs and blood explode from the shack and hearing the agonizing screams.

I land on my side, scraping the skin from my arm, nothing serious. I look around for Gator, my lungs filling with smoke. My eyes draw to the slaughter – nothing but a charred, black, red mess remains. Move down to Woozie and Su Xi talking, Woozie making hand signals, half a dozen more Triads scampering off, probably to give chase on us.

Then I see him, lying a few feet away, shaking his head, trying to refocus his eyes. He stares with sadness at the debris, half the bodies being the Triads he had spent some time with in the basement. He remembers the man's speech about how lucky they were, they would be able to join the private party, nothing can go wrong, lucky lucky lucky people. . ._ serving a cold hearted bastard of a leader who was more than willing to sacrifice all of them! _Gator wouldn't let him get away with it.

I stagger over, hold out a hand to help him up. He accepts it and pulls himself to his feet, not a moment before the area erupts with gunfire from the Chinese men.

"Oh st!" Run!"

We pull our arms over our heads, keeping low as we run for my car. "I wouldn't." says Gator.

"Why not?" He obviously was hiding something.

"Just. . .trust me. Take my car."

"Whatever. Lead me there."

We run, the keys falling out my pocket, stumbling through the firing going on overhead, getting less and less frequent the more we run, probably the Triads weren't chasing.

A skid, we look up. A jet black Washington like the one I had seen – with the tinted windows, fancy hood ornament. It halts in front of us, almost running us over. In a synchronized fashion, the suited Japanese men exit, brandishing their assault rifles, caught in the crossfire of Gator's stolen pistol – three shots each in the stomach – slumping to the ground or up against the side if the car. Their weapons barely touch the blood soaked concrete before being snatched up and used to gun down the other two gangsters, barely conscious of what has happened. Free ammo, albeit a little sticky from the blood.

We keep running, the heavy weapons slowing us none, the desperation to escape propelling us faster than ever. Another car speeding down from the right, slows to ten or fifteen miles per hour, we vault the bonnet and keep running, out of range before they even leave the car.

A quick look behind reveals the car has kept going, gangsters intact. We cover the final few yards to Gator's Bright red Super GT, Gator fumbling for his keys as I throw myself in the back with both guns – safety on of course. Gator leaps over the driver side door, keys straight in the ignition, panicking, stalling the car.

Circulating propeller blades blow trash all around, the voice from inside yells "Drop your weapons! Come out with your hands up!" Are they talking to us? "Illegal activities stop! You in the car, drop your weapons and the keys on the ground and put your hands above your head!" Gator gives a swift hand gesture to the helicopter. "Alright! I've had enough! Open fire!" Bullets raining down about us, gangsters approaching, Yakuza Washingtons on the warpath, final try for the ignition – triumph! The tyres screech into action, the warehouse doors behind us blow open. A man clad in a grey tank top scurries out, a flood of suits behind shooting at his feet.

"There he is! It's Phil Cassidy! Shoot him!" yells the chopper pilot.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGH! Wait up!" screams Phil, leaving Warehouse eleven as the shots blast from the chopper window. He leaps into the back and ducks under the seat as the car rockets down the path to the exit. The dozen or more gangsters shoot randomly at the car, every shot a miss, the helicopter still goes relentless as the pilot chases on. The familiar screech behind us, a black Washington revving up and ready to ram us.

"Could use some help Phil!"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

"Come on!" I start firing on the Washington, scraping off the paintwork, popping a tyre. It skids to the side, revealing two more giving chase, and three Triad fish vans behind, plus one chopper.

Up ahead, the main exit to the compound – Triads galore, ready and willing.

"Oh shit!" screams Gator, "I gotta slow down!"

"Oh no you fucking don't!" yells Phil, slamming his foot on top of Gator's, shielding his eyes from sparks and metallic debris as Gator's Super GT ploughs through Triad gang cars, and Triads, blood barely visible on the red paintjob, scratches as clear as day.

"Sorry 'bout that." he says.

"Aaaaaaah!"

"Uh. . .Phil – shooting."

"Right. Right."

Phil joins me at the back again where the same convoy of pursuers follow. If Phil's suicidal driving didn't shake em, nothing will.

A well placed shot takes out the driver of a Triad Fish van, one headless body falling out the door, one car coming to a halt. The rest simply manoeuvre round it.

A quick break to save ammo – only the chopper was returning fire, and the chopper is concentrating on taking out the other cars, to no avail. We look to the front, the time now approaching five o'clock, peak time, the roads jam packed with drivers coming home from work, not good people to mess with in a high speed chase. Phil tries to put something in Gator's ear to tickle him for no reason, gets a fist in his face as reward from the gracious driver, currently using all his concentration to avoid the rush. But no matter how good his skills, the expert drivers tailing us could do everything he could, and better.

"We're running out of ammo, man!"

"I know. I know. But here's an idea." says Phil as the chopper return it's focus to us. He takes my assault rifle and unloads clip after blood soaked clip into the chopper, one shot shattering the windshield, the next one hitting the shooter's door off. We watch in amusement as he plummets down onto the road, becoming roadkill – chasing cars mutilating him as they run him over.

Another couple of shots and the pilot is hit, the blades start to slow, the chopper descends, down, down, down, in front of the cars, an explosive pile up ensues.

The heat's off.

We look out to sea, the pier never quite the same. Objects glitter in the sun, one big charred mess in the middle of it all, Woozie nowhere to be seen. I see my car, just a speck in the space I left it. That reminds me.

"Gator, why didn't we take my car?"

"Oh yeah, I put a bomb in it."

"Oh."

"Yyyyyyyyyeah. Makes sense now, huh?"

"Yeah." I force a laugh. "So you were trying to kill me?"

"They found your car. They knew you were there."

"Then why still hold the ceremony?"

"I've heard Wu Zi Mu has exceptional luck. He believes he is invincible."

"Well, we'll prove him wrong, guys." says Phil.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the cops are onto us, the Mafia are on to us, _everyone_ is onto us. So let's pull one more job, get rid of all the double crossin' bastards we don't like, then skip town. New identities, new life. If we don't we get killed."

"I don't know. . ." says Gator.

"C'mon, what have we got to lose?" asks Phil?

"I'm in."

"Me too." sighs Gator, as we pull into the factory.

"We can't stay here, they know too much. Let's get a hotel, plan this out. We better be quick. There's no knowing when someone could find us."

A new life? I'd done this whole "skip town" routine before, it turned out to be one of the best moves I ever made. I got reunited with an old friend, made some serious cash selling armaments with the legendary Phil Cassidy. Besides, these guys would be coming with me. And I have nothing to leave behind.

Up in the hotel suite, I flick on the TV, for the coverage of the incident that transpired that day.

""Reporter Aaron Pettis, standing in for Richard Burns, is at the scene." announces Lianne.

"Wow, the bodies are everywhere! Man this accident is really cool!"

"Any sign of the criminals yet Aaron?"

"Na but check this out – a car! And the keys are right there! Man I gotta-""

I turn the channel in boredom, flick through other channels, all of the same news broadcast, showing the same smoking crater in the ground, emergency teams rushing in etc.

Ah well. Another incident to my name. Time to skip town indeed. . .

**A/N: Yeah, 8000 words. Cool. If this chapter seems different from my regular kind of work (different sentence structure from Phil's action sequence onwards) it's because I've been reading a book and have subconsciously adopted the writer's writing style and employed it in my work. It's still me writing it though.**

**Oh yeah, and Aaron, that's what you get for complaining your name wasn't used in enough stories. Now you're dead. Nyah.**


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